LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  Of 
CAHFOW4IA 


- 


ABADDON, 


THE 


SPIRIT  OF   DESTRUCTION; 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS. 


BY  SUMNER  L,.  F  AIRFIELD, 


NEW  YORK: 

SLEIGHT  AND  ROBINSON. 

1830. 


LOAN  STACK 


i&uthern  District  of  New  Y&rk,  «*. 
BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  That  on  the  eleventh  day  of  December,  in  the 


a 
book,  the  right  whereof  he  claims  as  Author,  in  the  words  following1,  to  wit  : 

"  Abaddon,  the  Spirit  of  Destruction,  and  other  Poems.  By  Sumner  L. 
Fairfield." 

In  conformity  to  the  Act  of  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled,  "  Aa 
Act  for  the  encouragement  of  Learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  Maps, 
Charts,  and  Books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies,  durin<r  ujo 
times  therein  mentioned."  And  also  to  an  Act,  entitled  "An  Act,  supple 
mentary  to  an  Act,  entitled  an  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  Learning,  by 
securing  the  copies  of  Maps,  Charts,  and  Books,  to  the  authors  and  proprie 
tors  of  such  copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned,  and  extending  the 
benefit  thereof  to  the  arts  of  designing,  engraving,  and  etching  historical 
and  other  prints." 

FRED.  J.  BETTS, 

Clerk  of  the  Southern  District  of  New  York 


9^3  ; 
F  \t 

CLMb 


THE  DEDICATION. 


TO  FITZ  GREEN  HALLECK,  ESQ., 
As  the  highest  and  purest  evidence  which  a  poet  can 
offer  of  his  admiration  of  Genius  united  to  purity  of 
heart,  and  great  poetic  excellence  to  devoted  habits  of 
business,  with  profound  respect  for  virtue  and  ability,  and 
the  varied  accomplishments  of  the  scholar  and  the  gen 
tleman, 

This  Poem  is  Dedicated  by 

THE  AUTHOR. 


078 


THE  ARGUMENT. 


ABADDON  or  Apollyon,  as  the  name  imports,  is  supposed  to  be  sub 
ordinate  only  to  Satan,  the  adversary  or  tempter,  who  prepares  by- 
intrigue  and  seduction  for  the  terrible  triumphs  of  the  Fiend  of  Ruin. 
The  scenes  subsequent  to  the  flight  of  Abaddon  have  been  necessa 
rily  selected  for  a  general  illustration  of  the  desolation  and  agony 
which  sin  has  entailed  upon  the  world  ;  and  the  purpose  of  the  au 
thor  has  been  to  exhibit,  in  the  strongest  light,  the  malevolence,  the 
ingratitude,  and  the  weakness  of  men ;  their  ineptitude  to  choose 
the  highest  good ;  their  bigotted  perseverance  in  confirmed  and  habi 
tuated  crime ;  their  insusceptibility,  in  the  midst  of  desperate  vice, 
to  permanent  impressions  of  virtue  ;  and  their  ill-fated  adherence  to 
all  that  demoralizes  the  heart  and  degrades  the  mind.  From  the 
vast  empire  of  History  but  few  examples  could  be  delineated  or  even 
named  in  a  poem  so  brief  as  this  ;  but  it  is  trusted  that  enough  have 
been  presented  to  unfold  the  melancholy  truth,  that  man  has  too 
often  been  the  dupe  of  fallacy  and  the  slave  of  passion,  devoted  to 
the  accomplishment  of  ambition  or  opulence — the  common  vain 
glories  of  life — though  exposed  to  the  penalty  of  popular  execra 
tion  and  personal  unhappiness.  Little  relief  has  been  thrown  upon 
the  picture ;  for  the  purest  religion  has  been  for  centuries  made  sub 
servient,  in  too  many  instances,  to  the  perfidious  policy  of  designing 
men,  who  sullied  the  purity  which  opposed  their  ambition,  or  annihi 
lated  by  ostracism,  the  scaffold,  or  the  pyre,  the  enlightened  few  of 
a  darkened  sera. 

True  piety,  averse  from  contention,  and  humble  in  its  lofty  devo* 
tion,  exerts  but  little  influence  over  the  affluent  and  the  worldly. 
The  Spirit  of  Love  breathes  over  the  agitated  waters,  but  seldom 
hushes  their  commotion ;  the  rainbow  of  beauty  only  adorns  the 
storm-cloud  which  it  cannot  disperse. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION. 


WHERE  the  wild  darkness  of  the  nether  world 
Fell  with  its  ghastliest  grandeur,  and  vast  clouds 
Trailed  o'er  the  panting  firmament,  and  hung 
Like  sworded  ministers  of  vengeance  low 
Upon  the  dismal,  thick,  and  deadly  air, 
ABADDON  stood  companionless,  and  wrapt 
In  wasting  thought — a  pyramid  of  mind 
On  the  dark  desert  of  Despair  !     Alone 
He  stood,  and  his  broad  shadow  quivered  o'er 
The  jagged  and  tumultuary  clouds, 
Where  living  blackness  struggled  with  the  glare 
Thrown  from  the  fierce  volcano's  lava  breast, 
With  even  a  deeper  gloom ;  for  moral  guilt 
Transcends  the  tempest's  terror  and  the  wreck 
Of  warring  elements,  aijd  brands  its  curse 
Upon  the  tortured  spirit,  from  its  throne 
Hurled  down,  and  doom'd  to  agonize  and  burn. 
Abraded  of  his  glory- — shrouded  now 
In  the  dire  garments  of  the  accursed  race 
Whom  Pride,  the  child  of  Intellect,  o'erthrew, 
Buried  in  blackness  with  the  muttering  slaves 
Of  his  tremendous  treasons — worst  of  all. 


*  ABADDOA, 

Too  proud:  in  desolation's  loneliest  hour.- 

To  hold  communion  with  inferior  minds, 

Or,  for  a  moment,  bend  the  archangel's  brow 

To  baser  natures,  pale  ABADDON  leaned 

Against  a  towering  pillar  charged  with  flame, 

And  spurned  the  fierce  coiled  serpents  at  his  feet 

With  calm  derision,  for  he  felt  within 

Strong  anguish  past  their  power.     His  blasted  bro\\ 

Worked  in  a  terrible  torture  as  the  throng 

Of  horrible  remembrances  went  by, 

And  all  the  majesty  of  mind  unblest 

Glared  in  the  high  and  haughty  scorn  that  burst 

From  his  indrawn,  remorseless,  withering  eyes. 

Hurled  from  the  pinnacle  of  glory — hurled 
From  seraph  throne,  from  love,  from  heaven  and  hope. 
The  matchless  mind,  that  consummated  bliss 
When  o'er  the  crystal  fountain  of  his  soul 
Hovered  ethereal  Purity  and  smiled, 
Now  sealed  the  utter  madness  of  his  doom. 
Memory — the  star-eyed  child  of  Paradise  ! 
Rushed  o'er  the  burning  realm  of  banished  thought. 
Raining  her  scorpion  arrows — Shame,  Remorse, 
Vain  Penitence  and  Hatred  of  himself 
Haunted  the  ruined  altar  of  his  feoul, 
And  offered  up  the  sacrifice  of  death, 
That  found  no  mercy  and  could  never  die. 
The  glacier  barriers  of  his  banishment, 
Perdition's  shattered  rocks,  whose  awful  peaks 
Gleamed  in  the  holiest  light  of  glory  lost, 
Closed  round  his  prison-house — his  living  tomb 


THE    SPIRIT   OF    DESTRUCTION. 

Of  still  tremendous  intellect ;  despair 

Followed  his  steps  along  his  lava  path, 

And  pride  restrained  his  anguish,  though  no  more 

He  watched  with  the  wild  agony  of  hate 

The  dayspring  or  the  twilight  flight  on  high 

Of  gleaming  seraphim,  or  heard  the  hymns 

Of  cherubs  drinking  knowledge  from  the  fount 

Of  Love  and  basking  in  the  light  of  God. 

The  thoughts,  that  cast  him  from  his  palmy  state, 

The  limitless  aspirings  and  desires 

Of  an  immortal  nature,  once  to  him 

The  ambrosia  and  the  diadem  of  bliss, 

Came  o'er  him  like  the  spectres  of  the  past, 

To  shriek  amid  the  ruins  they  had  caused, 

And  pierce  like  fire-bolts  through  his  maddened  brain. 

He  dared,  and  perished  in  his  power  and  pride, 

Fell  from  the  hallowed  throne  of  cherished  hope 

And  sunk  to  shame — it  was  enough  to  know 

And  feel  as  great  minds  feel  their  perill'd  might 

And  ruined  fame  and  conscious  guilt  beyond 

The  venal  casuistry  of  proud  self-love. 

He  would  not  be  Mezentius  to  himself 

And  wed  his  great  ambition  to  the  corse 

Of  his  dead  being ;  nor,  Procrustes-like, 

Measure  departed  happiness  in  heaven 

By  present  misery  in  Hades'  vault. 

So  back  upon  himself,  with  dire  resolve, 
The  voiceless  desperation  of  his  doom, 
He  deeply  shrunk,  and  reck'd  not  of  the  Power 
Forever  paramount,  nor  punishment 

2 


10  AJJADDOIX, 

Doomed  to  die  round  of  ages ;  desolate, 
He  cherished  not  a  hope  of  happier  hours, 
Loved  not,  confided  not,  but  breathed  above 
All  sympathy  and  fellowship  and  fear. 
He  poured  not  tears  on  thunder-riven  rocks, 
Nor  sighs  upon  the  burning  air  that  fell 
Like  lava  on  his  brain  and  through  his  heart 
In  livid  lightnings  wandered;  but  he  grasped 
His  garments  of  eternal  flame  and  wrapt 
Their  blazing  folds  around  his  giant  limbs, 
And  stood  with  head  upraised  and  meteor  eye 
And  still  lips  whose  pale,  cold  and  bitter  scorn 
Smiled  at  eternity's  deep  agonies, 
The  Spirit  of  Destruction  undestroyed ! 
Remote  from  all  who  fought  and  fell  like  him, 
In  the  lone  depths  of  vast  Gehenna's  waste, 
And  by  the  lava  mountains  overhung 
That  darkened  e'en  the  vaulted  vapour's  gloom., 
He  stood  in  that  sick  loneliness  of  soul, 
That  awful  solitude  of  greatness  lost, 
The  Evil,  highly  gifted,  only  know, 
When  every  passion  riots  on  the  spoils 
Of  knowledge,  and  the  fountain  springs  of  life* 
Burst  in  a  burning  flood  no  time  can  quench. 

But  that  which  agonized  his  hopeless  heart 
And  stung  him  oft  to  phrenzy — that,  which  hung 
O'er  his  all-dreading  yet  all-daring  soul 
Like  thousand  mountains  of  perpetual  flame, 
Was  earthly  innocence.     Ere  then  had  flown 
The  fame  of  man's  creation  in  a  sphere 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   DESTRUCTION.  11 

Fashioned  in  beauty  for  his  joy  and  use 
Through  the  black  chambers  of  the  central  world : 
And  misery,  leagued  with  being's*  deadliest  foes, 
Blighted  Ambition  and  vain  hope  of  Good, 
Restless  Remorse  and  desolating  Shame, 
Pictured  the  loveliness  and  love  of  earth — 
The  sunlight  hills,  to  whose  immortal  thrones 
Morn  like  a  seraph  in  its  glory  came ; 
The  shadowy  valleys,  where  autumnal  airs 
Mid  pine  and  firwoods  uttered  those  sweet  hymns 
That  sink  into  the  spirit  and  become 
Oracles  of  future  joy  when  earth  grows  dark ; 
The  leafy  groves,  still' d  at  the  fervid  noon 
That  silence  may  attend  on  solemn  thought, 
The  incense  rendered  on  the  sun's  vast  shrine ; 
The  broad  and  beautiful  and  glittering  streams, 
Where  Nature,  in  her  soundless  solitudes, 
Smiled  grateful  back  the  eternal  smile  of  Hope. 

With  the  bright  hues  misfortune  gives  to  joy, 
The  outcast  angel,  in  his  dungeon  gloom 
Girdled  and  counselled  by  the  false  and  vain, 
The  wicked  without  aim  save  love  of  change, 
The  galley  felons  of  unguerdoned  guilt, 
Painted  the  matchless  charms  of  newborn  earth ; 
And,  as  he  imaged  forth  its  blissful  scenes, 
His  burning,  riven,  desolated  heart 
Groaned  till  the  caverns  of  remotest  hell 
Echoed,  and  all  the  envious  demons  laughed. 
For  well  he  knew  that  while  the  laws  of  God 
Were  as  the  breath  of  life  to  man,  no  power 


12  ABADDCHN, 

Could  loose  Destruction's  adamantine  chaiu^, 
Or  shield  his  haughty  spirit  from  the  scoff 
And  contumelies  low  of  «herding  fiends, 
Who  drivelled  e'en  in  torment,  and  could  find 
Meet  mirth  in  wilder  madness,  and  misdeemed 
Their  crime  and  agony  of  less  amount 
When  mind  alone  was  wanting  both  to  rend 
And  still  renew  the  anguish  ne'er  to  close. 

But  soon  from  Eden,  o'er  the  wide  void  deep, 
Returned  the  adversary,  the  master  fiend, 
Moulder  of  fiercest  passions — queller,  too, 
Of  turbulence  and  vain  ferocity, 
Whose  serpent  wisdom  nourished  matchless  pride, 
Whose  hope  was  ruin  and  whose  counsel,  death. 
In  guile  without  a  peer ;  on  holy  works 
And  customary  rites  attendant  e'er 
As  come  their  seasons,  with  a  zealot's  speech 
Prolonged  and  trumpetted  that  pours  and  pours 
Like  turbid  waters  by  the  tempest  hurled. 
He  holds  devoted  natures  with  the  grasp 
Of  death,  and  'neath  the  pictured  mask  of  grac;- 
Hides  the  atrocity  and  doom  of  hell. 
Opinion,  fount  of  action,  falsely  held, 
Founds  and  confirms  his  empire  ;  fallacies. 
With  master  skill  and  magic,  he  distorts 
And  beautifies  with  the  fair  robes  of  faith  ; 
The  martyr's  sacrifice — the  patriot's  doom — 
The  just  man's  dungeon  hours — the  last  despair 
Of  virtue,  and  proud  honour's  agony, 
To  him  are  mirth  and  music  ;  and  he  feasts, 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  13 

With  hecatombs  of  victims  offered  up 
Upon  the  idol  shrine  of  evil  here, 
His  own  eternal  anguish  and  remorse. 
The  rushing  of  his  dragon  wings,  like  storms 
In  mountain  gorges,  shook  the  conscious  air, 
And  rapture  sounded  in  their  vast  quick  sweep 
Along  the  dim  confines  and  swirling  gulf 
Of  chaos  !  Crowded  round  the  cloudy  throne 
Of  Pandsemonium  all  the  rebel  horde, 
And  rapidly,  with  haughty  gesture,  passed 
ABADDON  to  his  place,  the  loftiest  there 
Save  one,  and  terribly  his  glowing  eyes 
Watched  and  awaited  the  descending  chief. 

As  in  the  prophet's  vision  by  the  brink 
Of  Ulai's  orient  wave,  the  victor  foe 
Touched  not  the  earth  in  haughtiness  of  power, 
But,  ere  confronting,  conquered  in  the  spoil ; 
So  rushed  the  giant  prince  of  darkness  now 
On  condor  pinions,  with  hyaena  eye, 
And  broad  brow  in  the  storm-cloud  deeply  wrapt, 
In  his  career  exultant  that  despair 
And  death  from  birth  to  burial  should  infect 
Man's  heart  pulse,  paralyze  his  spirit's  power, 
Seal  all  his  human  hopes  with  vanity, 
Burden  all  pleasure  with  besetting  fear, 
Wed  honour  to  disgrace  and  pride  to  shame, 
Bring  widowhood  in  youth,  and  friendless  leave 
Unportioned  orphanage  in  evil  days, 
And  change  each  quickened  breath  to  sobs  and  sighs, 
And  o'er  all  scenes  of  love  and  rapture  cast 


H  \  15  ADDON 

The  gloom  of  peril,  hopelessness  and  want, 
That  trails  and  languishes  yet  fears  to  end. 

Crowned  with  a  volcan  glory,  came  the  fiend, 
Trembling  amid  his  triumph  lest  the  wrath 
Of  fiercer  retribution  should  pursue 
His  victory,  and  o'er  his  deathless  fate 
Hang  with  unutterable  revenge  that  grasps 
Eternities  of  misery,  though  he  felt 
Awful  capacities,  transcendant  powers, 
Knowledge  of  good  and  evil  past  the  scope 
Of  all  created  minds,  and  strength  of  will 
Matched  only  by  his  restless  agony. 
On — on  he  rushed,  like  that  dread  vision  borne 
O'er  Gilboa's  midnight  hills  when  shield  and  spear 
Shiver' d  and  regal  crown  and  sceptre  rolled 
Down  desolate  ravines — resolved  to  bear 
All  evil  worst  imagined  with  a  soul 
Of  quenchless  majesty,  till  o'er  all  space 
Annihilation  reigned  by  chaos'  side. 
So,  fanning  the  black  gulf  of  flame  amid 
The  horrible  profound,  his  cloud-like  wings 
Furled  at  the  flaming  footstool  of  his  throne. 

"  Triumph,  Dominions !"  loud  the  arch-daemon  cried, 
His  eyeballs  flashing  round ;  "  The  Son  of  Heaven 
"  Hath  fallen  as  we  fell !  Ye  Legions !  Lift 
"  Your  voices  till  the  rifted  concave  shrieks, 
"  For  1  have  vanquished  His  peculiar  work  ! 
"  We  lost  our  birthright  for  Ambition's  wreath 
'  Of  martvrdom,  and  for  ourselves  alone 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  15 

"  We  bleed  and  burn  ;  but  these  weak  beings  sought 

"  Evil  for  evil's  sake — knew  not,  forewarned, 

"  That  knowledge  is  the  crown  of  destinies, 

"  And  thought  not  that  one  crime  in  them  must  breed 

"  Myriads  of  myriads,  and  perpetuate 

"  Misery  arid  madness  till  unnumbered  years 

"  Have  wafted  hosts  on  hosts  to  one  abyss 

"  And  earth  no  more  can  sepulchre  the  dead. 

"  Who  shall  arraign  the  Tempter  ?  faith,  untried, 

"  May  be  but  falsehood  ;  innocence  becomes 

**  Virtue  but  in  victorious  trial ;  proved 

"  In  his  proud  conquest  o'er  deceit  and  guile, 

"  Man  has  been  worthy  of  his  Maker's  trust, 

"  But,  disobedient  to  well  known  commands, 

"  He  stands  disrobed,  unfolding  what  he  is. 

"  The  Almighty  held  denial  in  his  power 

"  Of  the  permission  to  attest  his  work, 

"  But  used  it  not ;  he  might  have  crowned  the  man 

"  With  perspicacity  and  strength  beyond 

"  The  daring  of  the  bravest ;  but  he  left 

"  His  creature  to  the  workings  of  his  will, 

"  The  illusions  of  his  uncontrolled  desires, 

"  Though  oft  premonished ;  so,  at  once  he  fell 

"  And  reaped  the  recompense,  and  where's  the  guilt  ? 

"  Not  mine,  but  his  who  saw  yet  boldly  sinn'd  !" 

While  Satan  thus  harangued  his  rebel  band, 

Mounted  in  pyramids  the  lurid  flames 

On  the  black  mountains  and  the  vales  of  hell, 

And  loud  the  concentrated  shouts  went  o'er 

The  radiant  battlements  of  heaven,  where  stood 

Seraph  and  cherub  on  their  missioned  charge. 


16  ABADDO.V 

Scarce  ceased  the  wild  acclaim,  ere  swiftly  rose 
ABADDON  and  down  dropped  his  chains ;  the  blaze 
Of  battle  burst  along  his  broad  high  brow, 
Its  thunder  from  his  voice  ;  he  stamped  his  foot, 
And  hell  recoiled ;  he  turned  his  scorching  eyes 
Upon  the  gathered  fiends,  and  all  fell  back, 
Save  Moloch,  with  a  shudder  felt  through  all 
The  realm  of  darkness ;  but  a  withering  smile 
Quivered  o'er  Satan's  dreadful  countenance 
To  witness  thus  his  victory ;  his  thoughts 
Sprung  on  eternity's  vast  shadowy  wings, 
And  down  the  viewless  future  madly  rushed, 
With  the  uproar  of  ocean  breaking  through 
The  crashing  mountain  barriers  of  the  earth. 
Conquered  and  manacled,  but  unsubdued, 
Despairing,  yet  devoted  to  his  crime, 
He  grasped  at  all  fantastic  shapes — all  shades 
Of  stalwart  phantoms,  gaunt,  and  grim,  and  huge, 
And  moulded  them  to  giant  foes  of  God. 
Though  in  his  Titan  heart  the  poison  stirr'd, 
Thrilled  through  each  vein,  and  every  iron  nerve 
Convulsed,  and  mounted  to  his  burning  brain 
In  boiling  eddies,  yet  his  scornful  lip 
Still  pressed  the  chalice  of  a  vain  revenge. 
He  started  from  his  vision  as  the  fiend 
Of  Ruin,  dark  ABADDON  shook  his  plumes, 
Broad  as  the  tempest's  banner,  on  the  air, 
And,  roaring  like  the  famished  lion  round 
The  wastes  of  Tadmor  or  Ipsamboul,  cried — 
"  My  time  hath  come  !  no  more  in  this  black  den 
"  Of  sloth,  and  desolation,  and  despair, 


THE  SPIRIT  OP  DESTRUCTION.  17 

u  Slumbers  the  Spirit  of  Destruction !  Sin 

"  Invokes  her  bridegroom  Ruin  !     Earth  and  Time 

;<  Already  shudder,  conscious  of  my  tread. 

"  We  meet  no  more  save  on  our  embassies 

"  Of  woe  and  terror  till  our  prince  achieves 

"  His  glutted  vengeance ;  but  in  many  a  land 

"  Ye  shall  be  gods  to  nations,  who  shall  fall 

"  Before  your  shrines  and  sacrifice  their  blood 

"*  In  rites  the  stars  shall  mark  with  pale  affright, 

u  Mysteries  and  sorceries  and  magic  charms, 

"  To  win  the  endless  torment  of  our  hell ! 

"  My  spirit  feels  the  knowledge — fallen  man 

"  Will  dare  beyond  the  damned — sink  his  soul 

u  In  vengeance  and  corruption — bare  his  arm 

"  Against  the  heavens  that  bless  him,  and  exceed, 

"  Once  taught,  e'en  my  capacity  of  hate. 

"  Therefore,  exult !  exult !  and  fare  ye  well !" 

He  said ;  and  momently  his  pinions  shook 

Their  first  quick  curses  o'er  the  quivering  void  ! 

The  Spirit  of  Celestial  Love,  that  stood 
Beside  the  throne  of  mercy,  breathing  bliss 
Through  each  ethereal- bosom,  inly  felt 
By  that  mysterious  mind,  which  guides  all  thought 
And  unwilled  feeling  and  directs  all  deeds, 
The  flight  of  evil  and  the  daemon's  power ; 
And,  silently  commissioned  by  that  mode 
Ineffable  and  yet  well  known  in  heaven, 
By  which  the  electric  will  of  Deity 
Pervades  all  spirits  as  light  gleams  through  the  eye. 
The  Angel  of  Benevolence  arose 

3 


1^  ABAUDO.N. 

And  passed  from  peace  and  praise  to  wrath  and 

From  perfect  bliss  to  doubt  and  care  and  strife, 

From  heaven's  own  glory  to  the  gloom  of  earth. 

But  great  the  guerdon  and  the  final  crown, 

A  li ving  and  perpetual  fount  of  joy, 

By  human  pride  unsullied,  by  the  lips 

Of  guilt  untouched,  shrined  in  the  unchanging  ski< •-. 

— Thou  soul  of  music  in  a  world  of  hate ! 

Thou  beautiful  and  holy  spring  of  love 

And  mildness  by  the  bland  and  blessed  voice 

Of  martyrs  and  apostles  gently  called 

Charity,  that  hides  unreckoned  sins. 

O'er  troubled  earth  thou  breathest  balmy  peace, 

Hushing  disquiet  with  a  whisper  heard 

Like  greenwood  hymns  at  eve ;  and  men,  unawed 

By  storm  and  earthquake,  to  thy  soft  low  voice 

Listen  like  convicts  to  unhoped  reprieve. 

Immortal  love !  though  generations  glide 

In  shadowy  armies  to  the  spirit-land, 

And  kingdoms  perish,  and  their  glories  fade 

In  fabled  legends,  and  untravelled  seas 

Lament  o'er  buried  cities,  still  thy  youth, 

Thy  brightness  and  thy  beauty  glow  the  same. 

In  living  hearts  thine  empire  changes  not, 

And  from  the  vale  of  sepulchres  thy  smile 

Wafts  spirits  purified  to  glory's  home! — 

— Forth  went  the  angel  to  his  trial,  meek 

In  power,  by  soft  allurements  to  o'ercome 

The  savage  wrath  of  men,  and  thwart  the  aim 

Of  the  remorseless  fiend  loosed  on  his  prey. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  19 

Time  with  the  sileht  speed  of  light  passed  o'er 

Eden's  poor  wandering  exiles,  and  the  gush 

Of  their  first  anguish  and  remorse  and  woe, 

Beneath  the  hallowed  influence  of  love, 

Daily  endearment  and  affections  linked, 

And  blended  destinies  and  humbled  thoughts, 

Faded  to  an  endurance  and  a  hope 

That  breathed  like  zephyr  o'er  them  ;  and  they  drew 

From  nature  and  her  eloquence  of  bloom, 

Her  moonlight  music  and  her  starry  hymn, 

Her  still  green  places  of  repose,  her  crowned 

And  glorious  mountains,  where  the  bannered  trees 

Against  the  sunset  sky  like  angels  stood 

And  waved  the  way  to  heaven — they  daily  drew 

A  blessing  on  their  toil — a  sacred  charm 

For  loneliness  that  fell  not  on  the  heart, 

JMeek  quiet  filled  with  stilly  dreams  of  days 

Unborn — and  lifted  up  in  thankfulness — • 

And  faith  that  linked  them  to  immortal  life 

With  Him,  the  Christ,  redeeming  what  he  judged. 

So  in  each  others'  weal  and  in  the  love 
Of  children  smiling  on  a  wondrous  world, 
And,  like  the  lonicera  round  the  palm, 
Climbing  about  their  bosoms  while  the  flowers 
Of  young  mind  perfumed  all  the  enchanted  air, 
They  found  their  solace ;    and  winged  pleasure  sung 
Around  their  rest,  undreading  future  ill. 
Years  brought  their  fruits  and  flocks,  and  ABEL'S  voice 
Cheerily  went  up  on  morning  airs,  and  swelled 
In  that  sweet  living  melody  of  heart 


20  .u!\nno\. 

Pure  thoughts  inspire  at  hallowed  eventide. ; 
His  home  was  on  the  hills,  his  altar  there  ; 
His  sceptre  was  his  crook,  his  soul  his  throne, 
Peace  was  his  realm,  his  God  was  everywhere. 

CAIN  tilled  the  earth,  a  stern  and  wayward  man, 
Cursing  the  curse  of  toil  and  barrenness, 
Though  plenty  clothed  the  hillside  and  the  vale 
With  golden  beauty,  and  his  generous  herds 
Reposed,  full  banquetted,  on  broad  green  meads. 
He  recked  not  of  the  gentleness  of  love, 
Calm  virtue  and  submitted  pride  and  thoughts 
Exalted  o'er  all  evil,  from  the  dross 
Of  earth  refined  and  fitted  for  their  home. 
But  great  ambition  panted  for  renown 
And  monuments  and  temples  and  a  fame 
Immortal  as  the  skies  that  watched  his  soul. 
Tradition,  uttered  by  the  voice  of  grief, 
Had  told  the  pomp  of  hierarchies  throned 
And  sceptred  seraphim,  and  CAIN'S  vain  heart 
Burn'd  for  their  princedoms  and  their  potencies. 
So  evil  grew,  and  daily  to  his  task 
He  bore  a  darker  spirit ;  envy  cast 
Midnight  o'er  happiness  not  left  for  him, 
And  hatred  tracked  the  shepherd  to  the  hills. 
There  are  two  altars  on  a  lonely  mount 
Since  named  the  Throne  of  Elbours,  mid  the  land 
Of  Iran,  clothing  its  dark  brow  in  clouds, 
While  thunder  voices  down  each  shattered  gorge. 
RaVine  of  rocks  and  dreary  shagged  glen 
Mutter  and  moan,  and  in  the  fiery  depth 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION. 

The  dread  volcano  startles  into  wrath. 
Beside  each  shrine  stand  two  majestic  forms, 
Beautiful  in  early  manhood,  girt  with  strength 
As  with  a  robe  of  steel,  whose  thousaqd  chains 
Sleep  'neath  the  silken  draperies  and  plumes 
And  broideied  cloth  of  gold  of  courtier  pomp. 
Yet  in  their  orisons  and  deeds  unlike, 
Their  thoughts  and  sacrifice,  a  spotless  lamb 
Divided  lay  on  ABEL'S  shrine ;  the  fruit 
Of  earth,  the  haughty  offering  of  a  heart 
That  bade  the  Deity  accept  the  form 
Of  worship,  and  give  back  the  meed  deserved, 
Fell  from  the  hand  of  pride  upon  the  wood 
Of  CAIN  heaped  on  steep  rocks  in  shapeless  piles. 
The  shepherd's  prayer  in  stillness  mounts  to  God, 
And  fire  descends  and  curls  in  lambent  wreaths 
O'er  faith's  oblation  and  adoring  love. 
But  darkly  broods  the  storm  of  heavenly  wrath 
O'er  the  unholy  sacrifice  of  guilt; 
Naked  before  the  eye  of  judgment  stands, 
Benetted  with  hypocrisies  and  crimes, 
The  fierce  conspirator,  whom  evil  thoughts 
Clothe  as  a  garment ;  and  he  turns  aside 
From  the  heart-withering  glance  aghast  with  shame, 
Yet  desecrated  to  revenge  in  blood- 
Lowered  the  flushed  brow  of  CAIN — his  visage  fell, 
And  through  the  darkened  avenues  of  sin 
The  Fiend  of  Ruin  to  his  bosom  stole 
And  stirred  the  livid  flame  :  "  Thy  Maker  scorns 
"  Thee  and  thy  service  and  he  hath  respect 
"  Alone  for  slaves  who  prostrate  do  his  will. 


,'J  ABADDON, 

"  Thy  vassal  brother  wins  the  praise  of  God 

"  By  austere  life  and  a  feigned  awe  of  heaven, 

"  While  thou,  the  victim,  though  thou  hast  the  power 

"  Of  victor,  waitest  on  his  sanctity, 

"  And,  with  a  forced  repentance,  standest  by 

"  To  breathe  the  accepted  incense  of  thy  foe ! 

"  Earth,  sea  and  hell  cry  vengeance — be  avenged  !'• 

CAIN  listened  and  obeyed — his  weapon  fell — 

Death  started  from  the  gory  ground  and  gazed 

With  haggard  horror  on  his  father  fiend, 

And  fled,  the  trembling  vanquisher !     All  heaven 

In  awful  stillness  heard  the  martyr's  groan, 

The  cherubim  amid  their  worship  paused, 

And  even  the  viewless  throne  of  God  was  veiled 

In  sevenfold  darkness ! — silence  hushed  her  heart ! 

Cursed  with  a  deathless  agony — the  seal 
Of  terror  on  his  brow,  the  fire  of  death 
Coiling  around  his  spirit,  to  man's  scorn 
And  desolation  and  despair  marked  out, 
Creating  solitude  where'er  he  comes, 
Shunned  by  the  death  he  summoned  from  the  sod, 
And  left  a  breathing  sepulchre  amid 
The  mirth  ef  nuptials  and  the  feast  of  birth, 
Departs  the  Fratricide ;.  and  with  him  haste 
To  the  lone  wilds  of  Elam,  land  of  Nod, 
Belial  and  Moloch,  grovelling  chiefs  of  hell. 

Hast  thou  beheld  the  Persecutor  gloat 
O'er  banished  virtue,  outcast  guiltlessness  ? 
Hast  thou  beheld  him  following  Want's  slow  tread 


THE   SPIRIT   OP   DESTRUCTION.  23 

To  poison  every  little  stream  of  life  ? 

Oh,  hast  thou  heard  him  whisper  chill  distrust 

And  viper  caution  into  friendship's  ear, 

And  seen  the  electric  change — the  altered  eye, 

The  hand  withdrawn— the  petrified  repulse — 

While  voiceless  Innocence  retired  and  wept  ? 

Hast  thou  seen  hatred  wear  the  guise  of  grace, 

And  robe  revenge  in  the  fair  garb  of  heaven  ? 

Before  me  rises  the  inquisitor, 

With  meek  hands  folded  on  his  breast — bowed  head, 

And  downcast  eyes,  and  noiseless,  gliding  step, 

Proudly  exulting  in  the  awarded  praise 

Of  mild  humility  and  zeal  chastised 

By  holy  ruth  that  weeps  the  doom  it  speaks ; 

While  rancour  revels  in  his  bigot  heart, 

And  chain  and  faggot — woe  and  lingering  death 

Rejoice  his  spirit  more  than  temple  hymns. 

Thus  to  his  spoil  went  forth  the  dreadful  Fiend, 

(And  he  hath  many  a  slave  even  now  on  earth) 

To  gather  in  the  harvest  of  his  hate. 

Crime  came  to  consummation  when  the  sons 
Of  heaven  reviled  the  image  of  their  King, 
Wedded  idolatries  and  nameless  rites, 
Debased  their  nature  in  the  dust  and  sealed 
Lovebonds  with  the  accursed  race  of  CAIN. 
Hence  miscreations  came — the  giant  kings 
Of  old,  and  monsters,  hideous  birth  of  sin, 
Phoenicia's  Anakim — Titanic  chiefs, 
Centaurs  and  Lapithae,  vampires  and  gnomes, 
Malign  and  elvish  dwarfs  whom  dregs  suffice, 


24  ABADDOiN, 

Save  that  they,  serpent-like,  will  lick  the  dust — 
Briareus,  Polyphemus  and  their  peers, 
Nature's  abhorrence  and  derision,  sent 
To  riot  in  all  wrong  and  waste  and  woe. 
Bright,  young  and  beautiful,  the  world  overflowed 
With  shame  that  hath  no  voice  in  better  days, 
And  mercy,  wearied  with  perpetual  guilt, 
Lifted  her  prayer  no  more,  and  justice  cried 
"  God's  spirit  shall  not  always  strive  with  man  !" 

The  years  of  long  forbearance  slowly  fled, 
The  vision  of  the  prophet  from  all  eyes 
Vanished  like  sunrise  vapours,  and  the  words 
Of  wisdom  echoed  like  a  dying  voice 
In  Sinai's  wilderness ;  no  spirit  bowed, 
No  heart  relented  at  the  coming  wrath. 
Revel  that  brought  no  joy,  and  shrill-voiced  mirth 
Most  melancholy  poured  their  madness  out, 

\A.nd  lozels  wantonn'd  o'er  the  poisoned  bowl, 

\ 

And  blasphemy  embraced  the  shape  of  death, 
Howling  hoarse  curses,  and  all  forms  of  sin, 
All  gross  imaginations  of  desire, 
All  vampyre  appetites  and  goule-like  lusts 
Trampled  and  triumphed  o'er  the  laws  of  God. 


4, 


'he  pictured  cloud  conceals  the  wildest  storm, 
earthquake  leaps  from  slumber  into  rage, 
And  guilt,  most  safe,  is  nearest  to  despair. 
All  bosoms  had  been  gored  by  man's  excess, 
And  all  thoughts  coined  and  coffered  up  to  pile 
The  matchless  monument  of  evil  deeds. 


THE    (SPIRIT   OF   DESTRUCTION. 

Poesy,  the  bride  of  beauty  and  the  child 
Of  Purity,  immortal  in  the  skies, 
Soiled  by  the  atheist  and  the  ribald,  lost 
The  brightness  of  her  birthright,  the  blest  charm 
Of  her  ecstatic  being  that  hung  round 
Her  sylphic  form  in  rainbow  robes  of  light, 
And  fell  before  the  altar  of  the  Fiend. 
Struck  by  the  pestilence  that  roamed  each  track 
Of  daily  life,  the  Good  in  forests  dim 
Or  AJ-Gezira's  loneliest  caverns  dwelt, 
Pale  famished  anchorets,  and  hoary  hairs 
Waved  in  the  winter-winds  of  Oman's  sea. 
These  few ;  the  undreaded  Future's  destinies 
Rival  not  present  policy — the  scope 
Of  proud  example,  and  expediency, 
That  sullies  more  than  less  occult  offence. 
Hoar  heads  alone  rever'd  celestial  laws ; 
Exuberant  youth,  in  confidence  of  time, 
Held  the  late  banquet,  seeking  pleasure's  meed 
Among  the  bowers  of  pain  ;  and  Jubal's  lyre,    , 
Hung  on  the  willow,  harped  in  desert  winds. 
To  crown  the  cup  of  vengeance  and  to  bar 
All  hope  forever,  sons  of  Belial  poured 
On  Noah's  heart  the  gall  of  base  report 
And  pointed  at  him  with  a  scoff  and  jeer, 
And  drave  him  from  their  dwellings  with  reproach. 
Then  came  the  herald  of  the  heavens  and  closed, 
With  awful  words,  the  prophet's  mission  there ; 
And,  hovering  o'er  his  victims  in  the  pride 
Of  power,  ABADDON  listened  to  the  roar 
Of  coming  Ruin  as  the  war-steed  drinks 

4 


-*'  \iJAJH>0\, 

At  morn  the  music  of  the  noon-tide  strife. 

Lingering  like  hopeless  love  around  the  form 
Of  its  young  worship,  slowly  on  the  verge 
Of  the  blue  firmament  a  bannered  cloud 
O'er  Taurus  rose  and  rested  in  the  air. 
Upon  its  folds  deep  darkness  hung  and  oft 
Quick  shooting  gleams  of  lurid  fire  withdrew. 
For  momentary  glances  of  mad  fear, 
The  vast  dark  curtain  of  God's  mysteries. 
Then  up  t'was  lifted  o'er  the  lovely  vault 
Broader  and  blacker,  and  the  thunder's  voice 
O'er  Caucasus  and  Shinar's  evil  realm 
Rushed,  like  the  archangel's  trumpet  blast  of  doom, 
Crying  "  Repent  while  judgment  waits  your  prayers !" 
But  silence  answered,  and  ascended  higher 
The  tempest  in  tremendous  masses  swept 
Like  dust  before  the  samiel.     On  the  peak, 
The  utmost  pinnacle  of  those  vast  clouds, 
Grasping  the  arrowy  bolts  that  round  his  brows 
Hung  like  a  crown,  and  glaring  down  on  earth 
With   eyes  of  basilisk  that  drank  the  blood, 
The  Appearance  of  a  giant  shape  appeared ; 
And,  as  the  priest  and  prophet  sadly  paused 
To  gaze  and  weep,  he  raised  his  swimming  eyes 
To  watch  the  moment  when  the  door  must  close 
And  hope  expire ;  and,  like  a  swirling  bark 
In  Norway's  Maelstrom,  sank  his  awe-struck  heart— 
For  he  beheld  ABADDON,  calling  up 
All  wandering  vapours  from  the  shoreless  Deep, 
Guiding  the  hurricane  and  hurrying  on 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   DESTRUCTION. 

The  dread  reluctant  ruin,  and  he  heard 

The  laugh  of  hell  beneath  the  stars  of  heaven. 

Up  to  the  zenith  heaved  the  o'erfraught  clouds 
And  hung — then  fell,  dread  billows  of  the  sky — 
Upon  the  far  horizon.     Through  the  depths 
Of  the  tumultuous  welkin  flew  the  flames 
Like  fiery  scorpions  ;  east  to  west  replied : 
Pole  shrieked  to  pole ;  the  brazen  atmosphere 
Grew  ghastly  mid  conflicting  lights  and  shades, 
Ajnd  quivered  till  the  eyeballs  blurred  and  reeled. 
And  peril  and  dismay  and  fainting  fear 
And  terror  and  confusion  and  despair 
Entered,  like  siegers  furious  for  the  spoil, 
The  abodes  of  the  deserted,  while  the  floods 
Fell,  like  Araxes  from  Armenian  hills, 
Or  thousand  torrents  from  Cordillera'  brow, 
Down — down  upon  the  drenched  and  gasping  earth. 
The  apostates  at  their  feast  in  songs  obscene 
Mocked  Noah  and  his  storm-ship,  shouting  •«  Lo  !• 
"  The  madness  of  the  hypocrite !  his  beams 
"  Of  gopher  to  the  cruel  seas  will  tell 
"  A  tale  of  wreck,  and  all  his  crowded  beasts 
"  Will  roar  the  lawless  ocean  into  peace. 
"  Fill  round  and  drink  for  wisdom — the  red  wine 
"  Mantles  with  pure  philosophy — old  CAIN 
"  Commends  its  cheering  in  the  chilly  night!" 
So  talked  the  infidels;  but  morn  replied ! 

They  slept  the  sleep  of  wassail ;  but,  ere  stars 
Faded  behind  the  universe  of  clouds. 


All  woke  in  the  wild  terror  of  the  Bad. 

The  solid  battling  skies  poured  deluge  down, 

Typhon  poured  out  earth's  dirge  from  heavens  of  wrath, 

The  forests  shook  and  heaved  and  tossed  and  creaked, 

The  waters  through  their  dwellings  dashed  and  moaned, 

The  herds  sent  up  a  piteous  cry  —  the  flocks 

Were  hurried  o'er  the  illimitable  waste 

Of  countless  torrents  and  the  desert  beasts 

Mingled  their  yells  with  the  last  wail  of  men. 

Day  broke  and  in  the  gray  and  quivering  gloom. 
The  dull,  cold  twilight  of  the  cheerless  morn, 
All  eyes  beheld  on  waters  bubbling  up 
From  every  fountain  of  the  yawning  earth, 
And  pouring  from  each  livid  mass  above, 
The  Cypress  Ark,  the  home  of  truth  and  love, 
The  just  man's  sanctuary  $  and  with  shrieks, 
And  supplications  and  despairing  tears, 
Ten  thousand  voices  blended  in  one  prayer  — 
"  Receive  us  !  save  us  from  devouring  doeps  ! 
"  Receive  iis  !  save  us  from  the  tempest's  rage  ! 
"  Receive  us  !  save  us  from  the  wrath  of  GOD  !" 
But  on  o'er  surging  seas  and  broken  waves 
Floated  the  Ark  —  the  eternal  door  was  shut. 


The  shuddering  waters  gathered,  and  the 
Of  utter,  hopeless,  helpless  agony 
Rose  o'er  the  crash  and  howl  of  elements 
Convulsed  and  quivering  in  each  other's  wrath. 
Vain  were  uplifted  arms  and  faces  wrought 
To  anguish  ;  vain,  the  hoarse  and  strangled  voi«  « 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    DESTRUCTION. 

Of  sinking  feebleness ;  and  vain  the  shrieks 

Of  beauty,  erst  the  wonder  and  delight 

Of  human  passion,  while  the  torrents  swelled, 

And  quick  through  shattered  billows  glanced  pale  brows, 

Closed  eyes  and  raven  hair,  amid  the  foam, 

Like  countless  apparitions  round  the  couch 

Of  fever,  hovering  for  a  moment's  lapse, 

Then  vanishing  far  down  the  unfathomed  Deep. 

Down  came  the  Deluge.     Kuma's  lonely  vale 
Beneath  far  stretching  Caucasus  no  more 
Glowed  in  its  beauty  like  a  virgin  bride 
Unclosing  the  barr'd  vizor  of  her  lord. 
The  bright  and  glorious  hills  above  the  flood 
Looked  forth  and  vanished,  while  the  victims  clung 
To  the  drown' d  cliffs  and  topmost  trees  and  gasped 
Their  last  quenched  shriek  for  succour ;  every  pulse 
Ceased  in  the  turbid  waters— every  head 
Sank  on  its  cold,  dark  pillow — all  was  still ! 
One  moment's  struggle — and  the  silence  fell ; 
One  awful  pang — and  Death  swept  o'er  the  sen 
And  found  no  sacrifice !     Then  hoary  CAIN, 
Whom  multitude  of  years,  baptized  in  guilt, 
And  branded  with  impieties,  had  brought 
To  this  dread  expiation,  'mid  his  sons, 
His  nation  of  idolaters,  o'erwhelmed 
By  the  resistless  billows,  proudly  fell 
In  sullen  haughty  silence  and  cold  scorn 
And  unrepentant  pride ;  and  his  last  breath 
Quivered  with  voiceless  curses  as  he  swirled 
Along  the  surf  and  vanished  in  the  gulf. 


.30 


Then  with  a  music  like  the  battle  dirge 
From  midnight  mountains  sent  in  waves  of  sound 
O'er  forest  and  dark  dell  and  starless  vale, 
ABADDON  whirr'd  along  the  dreadful  waste. 
Loud  cried  he  in  his  glory  :  "  Triumph  yet  ! 
"  Sin  loves  her  bridegroom  Ruin  !  loyal  Death 
"  Obeys  his  monarch  and  the  world  is  mine  !" 
Creation  groaned  ;  the  universe  throughout 
Infinity  with  sudden  terror  quaked, 
Then  came  a  Voice  :  "  Thou  dost  what  GOD  permits. 
"  Apostate,  reprobated  slave  of  crime! 
"  The  author,  punisher  and  victim  too 
"  Of  recusant  and  unforgiven  guilt  ! 
"  Vaunt  not,  with  fond  ovation,  evil  done 
"  By  heaven's  allowance,  lest  thy  doom  should  b'u 
"  To  invent  fresh  torture  for  thy  fellow  fiends  !" 
The  Daemon  quailed  ;  yet  soon  above  the  Ark 
Hovered  on  giant  pinions,  looking  down 
With  vulture  eyes  unsated  by  despair. 
The  mountains  trembled  in  the  vast  ab\ 
The  Hazaldera  to  their  centre  shook, 
Hyrcania's  sea  forgot  its  ancient  bounds, 
Wandering  o'er  precipice  and  wood  and  wild, 
And  ocean's  viewless  monsters  o'er  their  tops 
And  in  their  awful  caverns  rolled  their  vast 
Unwieldy  forms  and  played  their  giant  game. 

Meantime,  the  floating  temple  wandered  on  ; 
And  in  the  bosom  of  the  house  of  God 
Rested  the  child  of  heaven  ;  and  praise  and  prayer, 
Chastened  affection,  gentle  gratitude, 


THE    SPIRIT   OP   DESTRUCTION. 

Serene  devotedness  and  fearless  trust 

Worshipped  in  every  pure  though  saddened  heart. 

Peace  as  in  Paradise  reigned  sole ;  the  asp 

And  viper  coiled  beside  the  infant's  couch. 

Lion  and  elephant  and  cougar  fed 

With  lamb,  gazelle  and  antelope ;  the  breath 

Of  wolverines  and  leopards  stirr'd  the  fur 

Of  slumbering  creatures  once  their  hate  and  spoil. 

For  there  the  Angel  of  Celestial  Love 

Abode  as  afterward  above  the  seat 

Of  mercy  and  between  the  cherubim, 

To  commune  with  the  spirit  that  had  dared 

The  scorner's  blasphemy,  the  earth-fiend's  assault, 

The  hatred  and  contempt  of  men,  and  soared 

Beyond  the  scope  of  evil — and  to  teach 

His  faith  by  prophecies  of  future  good, 

And  glory  and  dominion  ;  how  that  vice 

Should  minister  to  virtue  and  guilt  change 

Its  nature  and  be  fashioned  into  good, 

And  all  conspiracies  of  men  and  fiends 

But  consummate  the  last  great  praise  of  heaven. 

So  counseled  and  consoled  when  hung  the  Ark 

On  Ararat,  and  no  more  the  dove  came  back, 

Forth  went  the  Patriarch  to  his  own  wide  world. 

When  the  clear  rivers  had  resumed  their  banks, 
And  vivid  verdure  gladdened  o'er  the  plain, 
And  every  tenant  of  the  storm-ship,  robed 
Again  in  its  peculiar  nature,  had  gone  forth 
To  breathe  the  living  air  of  mountain  haunts 
And  graze  upon  the  vale  of  fountains  bright 


•>-  AKADDOV 

With  moon  and  sunlight  and  the  stars'  soft  smiles, 

The  rainbow  revelation  of  the  skies 

O'er  wood  and  mountain  glowed  with  hues  of  heaven, 

And  on  the  altar  of  man's  sacrifice 

Appeared  the  missioned  Angel  ;  u  Never  more, 

"  Saith  God,  shall  Deluge  drown  the  earth  ;  no  more, 

"  Till  Time  expires,  shall  dewy  seedtime  fail 

"  Or  cheerful  harvest ;  cold  and  heat  shall  track 

"  Each  other's  footsteps  in  the  round  of  years, 

"  And  birth  and  death  to  nations  shall  succeed 

"  As  nature  dictates."     Upward  soared  the  voice. 

Revered  in  reverend  age,  for  all  his  deeds, 
Were  chronicled  in  Honour's  living  scroll 
And  with  remembrances  most  sacred  charged — 
Beloved  in  his  last  hour — the  deeper  then — 
For  countless  hearts  had  garnered  up  his  thoughts, 
His  counsels,  his  examples,  faith  and  love — 
The  Patriarch  (by  the  sage  of  thousand  years 
Named  Noah,  consolation  for  the  curse) 
Summoned  around  his  deathbed  from  afar, 
Cathay,  fair  Al-Gezira  and  the  isles 
Since  titled  of  the  Gentiles,  and  the  shores 
Of  Oman's  sea  and  the  broad  realms  that  clasp 
Those  waters  trusted  in  all  times  with  wealth 
Of  argosies  and  galleons  and  triremes. 
Laden  by  Egypt,  Sidon,  Tyre  and  Moors 
Of  Afric  and  proud  lords  of  Christendom — 
These  called  he — sons  yet  chiefs  and  kings — 
Before  his  presence  ere  the  soul  grew  dim, 
Pour'd  in  their  waiting  minds  dread  prophecies, 


THE    Sl'llUT    OF   DESTRUCTION.  33 

And  histories  of  mutable  though  prospered  life, 
And  then  gave  up  to  his  Preserver  God 
His  spirit,  tried  and  purified  by  time. 
In  latter  ages  he,  who  wanders  down 
Euphrates'  banks,  may  see  nomades  stand 
Beside  an  ivied  moss-grown  monument 
Mid  ancient  woods,  and  hear  the  watchers  say 
"  Behold  Dair  Abunah — the  temple-tomb 
"  Of  him  who  saw  the  world  expire  and  lived." 

Once  more  the  earth  was  peopled,  and  the  land 
Portioned  among  the  children  of  the  just. 
The  branching  olive  in  the  valley  grew, 
The  vintage  on  the  hillside  blushed,  and  grain 
Waved  its  green  glories  o'er  rejoicing  fields. 
But  men  forgot  their  blessings  and  despised 
Their  birthright,  and  the  standard  of  their  king     < 
Deserted  in  the  faithlessness  of  sin, 
Deeming  their  own  vain  workmanship  could  build 
Castles  impregnable,  towers  proudly  crown'd 
By  the  blue  heavens,  secure  from  future  wreck. 
Thus  tempted  he,  ABADDON,  for  he  knew 
That  doubt  brings  terror — fear  of  boundless  power 
Avoidance  of  communion  and  concern 
And  final  hate  ;  and  to  this  scope  he  swayed 
The  fickle  mind  of  youth,  with  dread  of  ill 
Blending  sublime  and  thrilling  phantasies 
Of  honour,  greatness,  affluence,  and  fame. 
Hence  rose  corrupt  condemners — judges  throned 
In  bought  authority  and  base  insolence, 
Accusers,  yet  dispensers  of  men's  doom. 


•'••»  \l;.VJ>l)U.N. 

Hence  tyrants  rose,  who  trampled  on  quick  hearts. 
And  drank  the  shrieks  and  agonies  of  earth. 
Hence  envy  sprung,  armed  at  its  birth  with  stings 
Of  scorpions,  and  revenge  from  midnight  gloom 
Leapt  on  its  victim  with  uplifted  hand. 
But  craftsmen  skill' d  like  Sinon  in  old  time, 
Who  offered  ruin  upon  Ilium's  shrine, 
Or  Clazomenian  Artemon,  who  wrought 
The  fierce  balista,  or  Daedalus  fam'd, 
Rival  not  wisely  Him,  whose  moment's  thought 
Created  myriad  systems,  stars  and  suns. 
Each  artizan  on  Babel  sudden  heard 
Mysterious  voices  from  familiar  lips, 
Unknown  behests  from  architects  wellknown, 
And  each  misdeemed  the  other  mad  or  seized 
With  fiend  possession.     Anger,  wrath,  distrust 
Threw  gloom  on  every  stricken  countenance, 
And  sundered  the  assemblage  and  dispersed 
O'er  undiscovered  realms  and  regions  wild, 
Forest  and  seashore,  mountain,  dale,  and  plain, 
Proud  men  and  builders  vain,  who  left  behind 
The  monument  of  folly  to  proclaim 
The  nothingness  of  man's  magnificence. 

In  earlier  years,  unvisited  as  yet, 
Though  fraught  with  many  evils,  by  the  rage 
Of  worst  assassins,  in  my  solitude 
I  sung  the  vengeance  and  the  recompense 
Of  guilt  that  wrecked  the  Cities  of  the  Plain ; 
And,  earlier  still,  the  triumph  on  the  waste 
Of  Israel  o'er  the  banded  host  and  prido 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION. 

Of  Egypt  long  renowned  for  arts  and  arms. 
And  now,  thou  beautiful  imperson'd  Thought ! 
Queen  of  the  blest  Camoenae  !     Dweller  lone 
On  promontories  high,  by  pebbly  spring, 
Clear  as  thy  soul  and  mirror'd  like  thy  heart, 
Here  stay  thy  flight ;  thou  canst  not  follow  death 
Through  all  its  triumphs  in  all  time,  nor  paint 
The  Daemon  as  he  swiftly  sweeps  the  world, 
Rushing  from  woe  to  woe,  and  bearing  high 
His  carnage  front,  crown' d  with  its  wreath  of  flame. 
But  thou  canst  picture  such  disastrous  deeds 
As  leave  their  deadliest  wounds  in  life,  and  so 
Offer  upon  thy  country's  shrine  thy  lay. 
Guide  now  my  flying  song  through  awful  scenes 
That  darken  the  soul's  sunlight,  and  let  not 
Thy  deep  moralities  and  lessons  stern 
Be  wanting  to  instruct  the  soul  of  man 
That  wisdom  dwells  with  cloistered  gentleness, 
And  greatness  with  a  conquest  o'er  desire, 
And  fame  with  justice  and  with  duty,  peace ! 

Remorseless  avarice  and  serpent  guile  ; 

The  ravine  and  the  rapine  of  men  loos'd 

By  legal  sanction  on  each  other's  weal ; 

Accursed  usury  and  trade  that  seared 

The  generous  spirit  of  benignant  youth ; 

Feud,  faction,  rivalry  in  court  and  camp, 

In  nuptial  pomp  and  gaudy  obsequies, 

And  daily  intercourse  ;  pale  jealousy, 

Blighting  the  mildewed  heart  and  forging  wrongs 

To  consummate  suspicion  ;  envy,  hate, 


.;<;  ABADDO.V 

Howling  defiance  or  disguised  to  kill : 

All  desolating  slander,  whispered  out 

In  night  assemblies,  and  ere  noontide  hurled 

O'er  the  wide  town  to  feast  upon  the  slain  ; 

These  and  unnumbered  terrors  more  were  born 

When  cities  rose  and  thronged  societies 

Drave  sleeping  passion  into  ruthless  war. 

Nor  Sheikh  nor  Kphori  nor  Archon  throned 
In  Areopagus,  nor  Consul  stern 
In  curule  chair,  nor  chief  nor  king  nor  czar, 
Could  ever  crush  the  giant  crimes  of  men, 
Or  hold,  when  maddened  by  indignities, 
Their  bandit  natures  subject  to  his  law. 
All  codes  and  pandects  and  enactments  framed 
By  skilPd  and  titled  senates  cannot  bind 
Man  to  his  fellow's  weal,  nor  countermine 
The  quick  evasions  of  a  mind  resolved 
To  build  on  human  heads  its  dome  of  gold. 
Custom  creates  desire,  and  want  uplifts 
Its  voice  and  yearns  for  common  vanities ; 
And  folly,  minister  to  pride,  hath  had 
Its  bribe  in  every  age  and  clime  and  heart ; 
And  interest  coins  new  gold  from  sack  and  spoil 
To  bear  the  gorgeous  pageant  bravely  on. 
So  luxury  dissolves  the  strength  of  men, 
And  poverty  degrades  the  eagle  thought ; 
And  faith  deserts  all  commerce  and  all  speech. 
Then  tyrants  trample  ;  but  the  same  dark  fiend, 
That  covered  them  with  purple,  yet  hath  slaves 
More  terrible  than  this ;  and  rebels  crouch 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  37 

Around  the  throne  to  cleave  one  despot's  brain, 
And  seat  another  on  their  vassal  necks. 
Thus  doubt,  intrigue,  cabal  and  mutual  hate, 
The  monstrous  birth  and  bane  of  social  life, 
Bear  retribution  to  the  lips  of  all. 

All  history  is  but  a  scroll  of  blood, 
The  record  of  destruction  and  despair  ; 
The  life  of  man  hath  parted  from  each  sod 
Where  spreads  a  kingdom,  and  the  voice  of  woe 
Uttered  its  wailings  round  triumphal  cars, 
And  purple  pomp  and  unrestricted  power, 
Since  first  the  astonished  sun  beheld  the  sin 
And  shuddering  horror  of  Earth's  fallen  sire. 
Ixion's  wheel,  the  rock  of  Sisyphus, 
The  Danaides'  hopeless,  endless  toil, 
But  image  to  our  wiser  sense  of  fate 
The  misery  and  the  madness  that  have  crowned 
Lust  and  ambition  since  the  cherub's  sword 
Gleamed  o'er  the  closed  gate  of  lost  paradise. 

Lo!  glorious  Babylon — the  gorgeous  queen, 
The  lady  of  earth's  kingdoms  !  beauty,  strength, 
Dominion,  glory,  and  magnificence 
Gleamed  in  her  diadem,  and  nations  quailed 
Before  the  rushing  squadrons  of  her  kings. 
Towers,  castles,  palaces  and  guarded  walls, 
That  shadowed  the  sheen  dayspring ; — colonnades, 
Whose  porphyry  pillars  glowed  with  crowns  of  gems, 
And  glittering  marts  of  merchant  princes  meet 
To  purchase  monarchies ;- — and  temples  wreathed 


•  i^  ABADDON, 

With  gold  and  diamonds,  through  rosy  airs 

Soaring  to  heaven  ; — and  from  vast  terraces 

Gardens,  like  Eden's  in  its  hours  of  bliss, 

Gemm'd  with  the  matchless  flowers  of  all  the  east, 

And  shaded  by  the  cedar,  laurel,  palm 

And  grovelike  banyan,  hanging  from  the  walls — 

All  these  defended  and  adorned  her  pride, 

Her  boasted  immortality  of  power, 

And  captive  monarchs  laid  their  sceptres  down 

Beneath  her  footstool,  while  her  king  of  kings, 

Nabocolasser  deigned  to  bid  them  serve. 

Girded  by  battlements  that  mocked  assault, 

And  beautified  by  every  art  of  man, 

Her  bands  invincible  o'erspread  the  earth, 

And  garnered  up  in  her  proud  palaces 

The  majesty  and  pomp  of  prostrate  thrones. 

But  strength,  on  odours  pillowed,  faints  and  dies, 

And  glory  brooks  not  love's  voluptuous  ease. 

Fame  sculptures  its  own  throne  and  monument. 

O'er  perishable  existencies  and  things 

Doomed  to  decay  it  pours  its  deathless  soul, 

And  in  the  realms  of  thought  forever  reigns. 

But  from  the  hidden  urns  of  gold  and  gem? 

The  spirit  of  magnificence  enshrined 

In  darkness,  from  temptation's  weak  research, 

The  destined  king,  whom  vice  emasculates, 

Bears  to  his  banquet  poison  and  despair  ! 

Nimrod  and  Ninus  and  Semiramis 

Gazed  from  the  icy  pinnacle  sublime 

Of  restless  action  and  unslumbering  toil 

On  broken  dynasties  and  conquered  crowns  : 


THE    SPIRIT   OF   DESTRUCTION.  39 

With  wine  and  courtezans  and  sycophants 
Belshazzar  revell'd  till  the  spectre  hand 
Wrote  ruin  on  the  radiant  tapestries, 
And  ivory  pillars  of  his  banquet  hall, 
And  Mede  and  Persian  up  Euphrates'  bed 
Rushed  to  the  throne  that  held  no  more  a  king. 

The  solitary  Syrian  pilgrim  roams 
Through  Hellah's  dismal  hamlet  and  discerns, 
He  deems,  from  hot  and  drifted  sand  exhumed, 
Relics  of  Babylon — yet  doubts  his  quest, 
And  searches  more  intently,  while  the  wind 
Moans  o'er  the  desert  with  a  broken  voice, 
And  bats  and  bitterns  hover,  and  the  fox 
Springs  from  his  burrow,  and  the  jackal's  scream 
Haunts  the  lone  air  throughout  the  livelong  night. 
This  is  ambition's  triumph  !   this  the  crown 
And  consummation  of  earth's  monarchies  ! 
Myriads  have  toiled  their  threescore  years,  and  bled, 
And  swallowed  loathingly  their  galley  food, 
And  died,  the  slaves  of  myrmidons,  for  this  ! 
Childless  Chaldea  !  realm  of  sorceries, 
And  worldly  wisdom  and  enchantment !  queen 
Of  all  that  charms  man's  nature  and  inflames 
His  fatal  hopes — pale  dust  to  dust  gone  down — • 
Thy  sole  memorial  but  a  word — a  name  ! 

The  pale  pure  pearl  in  summer  daylight  smiles, 
But  diamonds,  gained  by  blood,  alone  shoot  forth 
Their  radiance  when  the  chandeliers  disperse 
Wavering  darkness  and  the  shapes  it  broods. 


40  ABADDON, 

Thus  joy  and  fame,  possessed  by  others'  good, 

Shed  their  blest  beauty  o'er  our  brief  sojourn, 

While  fierce  ambition's  earthquake  ravages 

Leave  empires  blackened  by  a  nation's  gore, 

And  glooming  'neath  the  volcan  blaze  of  war. 

Stand  thou  upon  the  holy  hill  of  truth, 

And  mark  below  the  struggles  and  the  wrath, 

The  dreadful  patience  of  death's  artizaiis. 

Behold  the  monarch  trembling  with  the  fear 

Of  viewless  treason,  troubled  and  unblest, 

While  envy  gazes  from  afar  and  sighs. 

See  magi  erring— -and  enchanters  lost 

In  their  own  labyrinths  of  fraud  revered. 

The  wanderings  of  the  wisest  and  the  fall 

Of  bravest  combatants  behold  !  and  send 

Thy  spirit  on  the  winds  o'er  every  clime 

To  weep  the  ruin  of  earth's  holiest  hopes ; 

To  weep  that  folly  ministers  to  woe, 

That  weakness  reigns  with  wisdom,  and  the  blood 

Of  centuries  but  buys  a  gilded  tomb ! 

Then  what  avails  the  voice  of  old  renown  r 
The  masques  and  riotings  and  glories  past  ? 
Lived  Phalaris  the  merciless  ?  there  are, 
Who  doom  deserving  to  the  dungeon  now, 
And  chain  high  merit  to  the  felon's  wheel. 
Did  Thais,  frantic  o'er  the  maddening  bowl, 
Tempt  him  of  Macedon  to  stain  his  name 
And  in  the  torrent  flame  of  Persia's  throne 
Persepolis  consume  his  memory  ? 
OUR  FATHERS — faith's  poor  exiles,  fed 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  41 

By  Red  Men's  charity,  and  warmed  to  life 
By  their  devotion  to  unfriended  want, 
Went  forth  from  unbought  refuges  and  fired 
The  dwellings  of  the  monarchs  of  the  land ; 
And  from  that  midnight  slaughter  all,  who  dared 
The  wreathing  flames,  fell  by  the  sword  or  ball. 

B 

Did  the  bold  Granicus  back  to  its  fount 
In  Ida  bear  the  shrieks  of  dire  defeat, 
And  Issus  and  Arbela  wail  aloud 
O'er  satraps,  princes  and  Darius  slain  ? 
Europe  'through  all  her  coasts  with  terror  saw 
Destruction  sweep  o'er  Austerlitz,  and  crush 
Hispania  'neath  his  iron  foot,  and  hurl 
Embattled  nations  to  the  doom  knell'd  out 
By  the  vast  Kremlin's  Tocsin  when  his  host 
Drank  the  cup  of  vengeance  to  the  dregs. 
She  saw  the  man  of  destiny  dethrone, 
Demolish  and  confound  the  crowns  of  kings, 
While  on  his  banner-bearers  in  the  van 
Of  desolation  hurried,  leaving  slaves 
To  bury  their  dead  conquerors — or  die. 
Drave  Shalmaneser  from  Samaria  sacked 
And  pastoral  Naplousa's  mountain  land 
The  countless  hosts  of  conquered  Israel 
To  bondage,  martyrdom— and  buried  all 
Beneath  the  mysteries  of  viewless  fate  f 
Careered  Sesostris  in  chariots  drawn 
By  kings  made  vassals  o'er  the  famished  realms 
Where  erst  they  reigned  in  Plenty,  Power  and  Peace  ? 
Who  hath  not  wept  o'er  Poland!  s  utter  spoil 
And  Kosciusko  like  a  star  cast  down  ? 

6 


-  UJAiMJO.V 

His  country  mangled,  riven,  with  bleeding  limbs, 
Hurled  into  Hinnom,  darkened  and  devoured 
By  boyars,  starosts — ruffian  hordes  of  chie's — 
Banished  and  banned,  her  patriot  spirits  robbed 
Of  home  and  hope— her  throne  in  ruins  laid —       ^ 
And  tyrants  trampling  in  her  temples  armed  ! 
Through  ranks  of  victims  crucified  and  racked 
Stalked  fierce  Volesus  and  his  spirit  glowed 
With  demon  gladness  and  a  murderer's  pride  ? 
<6ee  Marat  on  the  Greve  !  or  hear  (and  quail) 
The  dying  prayers  of  Glencoe,  and  the  shriek* 
Of  Saint  Bartholomew — the  feast  of  God, 
The  holy  eve  of  heaven !  and  yet  again 
Sicilians  Vespers  and  the  torch  of  Fawkes 
Mark  and  compare !  be  still  and  weep  thy  heart  I 

What  hath  been  is  and  will  be.     Seasons  change 
Their  advent  and  departure  ;  empires  fade 
And  falf  like  autumn  leaves;  and  manners  take 
New  effigies,  and  customs  like  the  moon 
Wex,  glow  .and  wane ;  and  e'en  the  steadfast  earth 
Unfolds  fresh  aspects  both  of  land  and  wave ; 
But  man  and  man's  strange  nature  never  change. 
The  mutability  of  brief  frail  life, 
The  woes  that  weave  their  poison  in  the  threads 
Of  being,  and  the  vanity  that  sinks 
In  loathing  sickness  o'er  accomplished  fame — 
All  utter  counsel  vainly — madly  on 
Borne  by  the  whirlwind  of  o'erweening  pride, 
He  pauses  not — he  breathes  not  in  repose 
Till  the  grave  buries  pomp  and  great  renown, 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  43 

And  desert  winds  o'er  dreadful  solitudes 

Utter  their  voices — chanters  for  the  Dead ! 

What  can  avail  magnificence  and  might, 

Dominion  bounded  by  the  ocean's  surge, 

And  famje,  whose  herald  was  stupendous  fear  ? 

Search  Memphian  pyramids  and  mete  by  line 

Gigantic  obelisks ;  tread  o'er  the  gAind 

Where  stood  Diana's  temple,  dashed  to  earth 

In  blackened  masses  on  the  fated  night 

That  shuddered  o'er  the  birth,  in  Macedon, 

Of  the  world's  scourge  and  curse  ;  or  print  thy  foot 

Among  the  ashes  of  Moriah's  mount, 

And  paint  in  burning  hues  its  day  of  doom ; 

Dare  the  simoom  and  let  thy  voice  be  heard 

In  Tadmor's  awful  solitudes,  or  turn 

And  mourn  dismayed  in  Balbeck's  domes  of  death ; 

Toll  yet  again  the  thunder  knell  of  Rome 

And  proud  Athena,  and  let  Egypt  hear 

And  echo  back  thine  eloquence  of  thought !  * 

And  what  shall  this  avail  thee,  if  thou  drink 

No  loftier  inspiration  from  the  scene 

Than  wonder  and  amaze  and  vain  romance  f 

But  if  thou  wilt  be  wise  and  choose  thy  good, 

The  large  revealment  is  before  thee  here. 

Ruins  of  glory  teach  thee  meek  content, 

Beatitude  that  offers  silent  praise, 

And  still  content,  the  best  religion, — love, 

Untrembling  confidence  in  Him  who  holds 

The  universe  in  scales,  and  faith  prepared 

To  mingle  with  its  Fountain  at  all  hours. 

Destruction  hath  not  slept  since  fell  his  chains 


44  ABADDON, 

In  deep  Gehenna  at  the  fall  of  man ; 

out  better  minds,  on  high  pursuits  intent, 

Create  and  fashion  fortune  to  their  will. 

The  outward  ill  may  torture,  and  the  strife 

Of  the  heart's  foes  may  bow  the  spirit  down, 

But  over  all  they  reign  at  last,  and  bring 

From  the  world's  wreck  and  their  own  sorrows  food 

To  nourish  Christian  meekness  for  the  skies. 

Receive  the  legacy  of  buried  years ! 
The  thoughts  sublime  of  high  philosophy, 
The  thrilling  music  of  great  intellects. 
It  argues  but  a  helot  soul  to  pore 
O'er  mouldering  instruments  of  havoc — lance. 
Bowstring  and  javelin  and  catapult ; 
Or  paynim  rituals  by  Menes  framed, 
Solon  or  Numa — fittest  offered  up 
To  sculptured  deities  and  pictured  Gods. 
Holier  than  sage  sanhedrim  soared  the  thoughts 
0Of  Plato  on  their  glorious  way,  and  earth 
Grew  lovelier  than  love's  bright  imagings 
Beneath  the  starry  splendour  of  his  soul. 
The  lion-hearted  son  of  Arcady, 
Diagoras  hath  shined  his  memory  too 
Deep  in  the  stainless  fountain  of  all  truth ; 
For  with  the  wanton  creed  and  faith  obscene 
And  faithless  deeds  of  Jove's  mad  worshippers 
He  held  no  commune,  but  with  martyr  voice 
Bade  Venus  bind  her  zone  and  veil  her  brow, 
And  Pallas  cast  away  her  aegis  and  no  more 
Gorge  her  beaked  eagle  with  the  blood  of  men. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  45 

The  maniac  son  of  Semele  he  bade 

Forego  his  thyrsus,  and  no  longer  fill 

The  madden'd  brain  with  fierce  licentious  thoughts. 

Thus  in  the  council  of  his  country's  gods 

He  stood — like  Austin  by  Andraste's  shrine 

On  Stonehenge,  girdled  by  the  Druid  band, — 

And  with  a  dauntless  eloquence  portrayed 

Their  hideous  idols,  whom  their  bigots  mocked- 

Banished,  proscribed  and  with  anathemas  - 

Burdened,  alone  into  the  desert  passed 

The  stern  philosopher  from  bondage  free. 

And  Socrates  hath  left  his  legacy, 

The  immortal  science  of  a  heart  resolved 

To  ratify  its  greatness  in  the  hour 

Of  doom,  and  o'er  the  shrinking  dread  of  death 

Mount  like  Elijah  to  the  heaven  he  saw. 

Lo !  what  a  hallowed  beauty  and  a  gush 

Of  soft  seraphic  beings  float  around, 

When  in  the  music  of  an  elder  day 

The  Samian  sage  Pythagoras  reveals 

The  inner  brightness  of  his  spirit  throned ! 

These  in  a  gross  and  grovelling  time  gleamed  out 

As  miracles  of  omen !   and  they  stood 

Untrembling  at  the  tyrant's  judgment  seat 

And  heard,  like  Galileo  from  the  lips 

Of  Bellarmine,  the  fiat  undismayed. 

Like  them,  devoted  scholar  !  treasure  up 
The  oracles  of  nature  and  be  wise. 
Look  not  on  any  faith  with  hate  or  scorn, 
For  who  hath  throned  thee  in  the  place  of  God  ? 


4ti  U',.\UL>UV 

Papist  or  Huguenot — Conde  or  Guise — 
Christian  or  Osmanlee  or  Brahma's  chief — 
Guelph  or  Gibbeline — theist  or  priest — 
Their  creeds  revered  call  not  thee  arbiter  ! 
It  can  avail  thee  nought  to  sear  the  heart 
Of  blest  humanity  and  brand  the  brow 
Of  intellect  with  evil  thoughts  of  men, 
And  hoard  ui  the  bright  mansion  of  young  mind 
Harsh  sentences  and  judgments  to  corrode 
The  fair  work  of  the  Deity,  whose  love 
Pervades  alike  all  nature  and  all  hearts. 
Rejoice  that  thou  art  free  to  feel  and  think 
And  utter  without  fear;  that  human  judge 
No  more  hath  power  to  chain  thee  in  the  flame, 
Or  on  the  rack  or  sachentege.     Beware 
That  while,  with  ashes  on  thy  head,  thou  sitst 
In  penitence,  those  ashes  from  the  fires 
Of  vanity  and  pride  fall  uot  to  sear 
The  soul  that  should  be  purified  by  love ! 

* 

Turn,  Spirit  of  my  song !  and  gaze  with  grief 

Once  more  on  death  that  in  the  noontide  comes ! 
Methinks  in  crowded  solitudes  I  stand, 
At  nightfall,  by  the  serai's  darkening  walls, 
In  beautiful  Byzantium,  laved  by  seas 
Of  old  renown,  the  Euxine,  Hellespont, 
And  fair  Propontis ;  and  the  turban' d  crowd, 
With  ataghan  and  scymitar,  pass  on 
With  hastened  steps  that  fear  yet  will  not  shun 
The  dreadful  pestilence  that  sweeps  along. 
The  distant  light  of  Pera,  one  by  one. 


THE   SPIRIT   OF  DESTRUCTION.  47 

Shoot  forth,  and  the  sweet  voice  of  love's  guitar 
Comes  on  the  fragrant  yet  death  laden  air 
With  a  heart-stirring  influence  and  charm 
That  melts  into  the  mind  like  childhood's  smiles. 
Below  me  lies  a  weltering  trunk,  and  yon 
The  headsman  sheathes  his  kinskal  to  relight 
His  quenched  chibouque,  and  drops  into  the  dust 
The  hoar  head  of  the  Hospodar.     Along 
The  colonnades  move  slow  the  Soldan's  guards 
Silent  and  waiting  death  they  dare  not  fear. 
The  wan  moon  o'er  the  Bosphorus  ascends 
With  sicklied  lustre,  and  her  mournful  smiles 
Rest  on  the  countless  monuments  that  throng 
Byzantium's  land  of  burial ;  and  methinks 
The  solemn  cypress  trees  do  moan  the  dirge 
Of  all  the  morning  sun  shall  see  entombed. 
In  stillness  flies  the  pestilence ;  and  prince 
And  slave  lie  writhing  for  an  awful  hour, 
And  perish ;  and  the  merchant's  crowded  mart 
Of  loveliness  from  fair  Circassia's  vale 
Will  open  on  the  morrow  to  convey 
Beauty  unto  her  bridal  in  the  tomb. 
Life's  breath  is  here  extinction  :  moments  grasp 
A  thousand  destinies ;  and  funerals  glide 
Like  evening  shadows  by,  as  thick  and  fast ; 
And  up  the  ladder  of  the  dead  methinks 
I  see  the  votaries  of  Islam  pass, 
In  silent  shadowy  multitudes,  to  lay 
The  idols  of  the  heart's  worship  where  no  more 
Bereavement  and  lone  widowhood  of  hope 
Pour  earth's  deep  night  o'er  visions  of  the  blest. 


l!-'  ABADDOiN, 

Woe  sits  in  every  threshold  ;  and  the  hour 

Of  prayer,  by  struck  muezzin  call'd  in  vain, 

Passes  without  a  voice  ascending  up. 

O  night  and  pestilence !  and  doubt  and  death  ! 

How  terribly  distinct  the  heart-pulse  throbs, 

That  soon  may  cease  !  as  through  the  quivering  gloom 

The  quickened  vision  glances  on  the  shade 

Of  fierce  ABADDON'S  form  that  hurries  by! 

— Anark  and  Rioter  in  myriad  woes ! 
The  fierce  orgasms  of  maddened  agony 
Have  been  to  thee  electric  ecstacy, 
Demoniac  raptuire — since  the  smile  of  God 
Was  clouded  by  despair  that  weds  with  crime. 
Before  thee  sink  the  beautiful — the  bard, 
Wasted  in  youth  and  in  his  flower  age  seared 
By  the  world's  samiel  and  his  own  quick  thoughts — 
The  hero  on  the  bosom  of  renown — 
The  sun-eyed  child  whose  being  is  a  bliss — 
The  virgin  in  her  loveliness — the  son 
Of  many  hopes  and  dreams  sublime  of  love, 
When  the  first  dawnings  of  his  fame  gleam  out. 
The  mightiest  armies  of  the  dead  rise  not 
From  gory  battle  field  or  lava  seas 
Drowning  still  cities  in  deep  floods  of  fire, 
Or  earthquakes  yawning  to  profoundest  depths, 
Or  tempest,  or  crusade,  or  ghastly  plague. 
Deeper  than  the  rent  banners  of  the  slain 
Was  steeped  the  soul  of-Csesar  in  men's  blood; 
And  Atila  from  Chalons'  streaming  plain, 
Heaped  with  its  hecatombs  of  victim's  fled 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  49 

Before  Theodric  with  a  heart  afloat 

In  gore  of  Hun  and  Goth.     Judea's  soil 

Grew  rank  in  richness  o'er  the  sacrifice 

Chivalric  monarchs,  led  by  bigot  wrath, 

Offered  to  Saladin  and  the  Sepulchre. 

Lo  !  awful  victory  o'er  seas  of  blood 

Waving  her  standard,  while  the  world  contends 

On  Zama,  Cannae,  Waterloo,  made  rich 

By  human  hearts  forever  pierced  in  vain ! 

But  Persecution  hath  a  wider  range, 

An  ampler  spoil  than  these ;  lo !  from  the  roll 

Of  Record  starts  the  pallid  student  up 

And  cries — "  Thou  prince^of  justice  and  of  peace ! 

"  Wolves  ravin  in  thy  fold,  and  mercy  shrieks 

"  In  vain  for  succour  while  the  guiltlessjdie ! 

"  Familiar  and  inquisitor  and  doom ! 

"  Apostle,  prophet,  martyr — child  and  eld  ! 

"  Freedom  and  shackles  and  the  axe  upraised 

"  Red  with  the  life  of  Hampden,  Sydney,  More ! 

"  Tyrants  and  parricides  and  length  of  years, 

"  Ismael,  Aurung-Zebe  and  Tamerlane  ! 

"  Oh,  the  soul  sickens  o'er  the  scroll  of  fame, 

"  The  just  man's  wrongs,  the  widow's  sightless  tears, 

"  The  orphan's  helpless  woes,  the  tyrant's  power, 

"  The  pride  of  Mammon,  and  the  painted  brow 

"  Of  hypocrites  exulting  o'er  their  prey. 

"  God  of  the  guiltless  !  in  Peru's  dark  mines 

"  Her  kings  dig  gold  for  murderers !  and  see 

"  Assassins  goading  to  the  Oregon 

"  The  ancient  sovereigns  of  our  plundered  realm  !" 

7 


50  ABADDON,  ETC. 

Thus  deems  the  nobler  mind,  intent  to  delve 
For.  knowledge  and  yet  shuddering  o'er  its  toil. 
Thus  vanish  generations  down  the  gulf 
That  opens  to  eternity,  and  thus 
The  Fiend  of  Ruin  wastes  a  dreaming  world. 

But  there  shall  come  an  hour  when  truth  shall  stand 
Upon  the  mountain  and  declare  to  earth 
Her  seraph  oracles  ;  when  love  shall  thrill 
Each  bosom  wedded  to  the  world's  wide  joy, 
And  image  in  the  fountain  of  the  soul 
The  universal  bliss ;  when  faith  shall  roam 
On  lovelier  meads  and  hills  with  glory  clothed, 
O'er  whose  bright  summits  rainbows  rest  in  heaven, 
And  over  the  charmed  universe  of  thought 
Pour  its  pure  radiance  from  the  shrine  of  God. 
Then,  cries  the  vision  of  the  banished  saint, 
In  deep  Gehenna's  darkest  depth  again 
Shall  writhe  in  adamantine  manacles 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION,  and  no  more 
Vainly  appeal  pale  famine's  hollow  eye, 
Or  broken  voice  of  burning  pestilence, 
Or  unheard  groans  of  battle  raging  on. 
But  dove-eyed  peace  shall  float  on  snowy  wings 
O'er  nations  banded  in  each  other's  love, 
And  the  free  souls  of  Heaven's  blest  children  flow 
In  light  and  love  o'er  earth  and  rest  in  God ! 


THE  HEART'S  APOCALYPSE. 


Ev  ' 

rfwSTai  UOTO  <nr)g 


WHY  wake  ye,  memories  of  devoted  hours  ? 
Delirious  dreamers,  sleep  forever  now  ! 
Through  the  cold  tempest,  that  around  me  lowers, 
Glance  not  heaven's  glory  on  my  darkened  brow  1 
Hushed  hearts,  that  quail  o'er,  still  despair's  last  vow, 
Breathe  awful  music  'neath  a  stranger's  touch, 
And  minds,  that  rocky  as  their  fortunes  grow, 
Like  mountain  torrents  gush  when  tasked  too  much  — 
They  bear  long  years,  but  dare  not  feel  their  burden  such. 

Though  shook  by  every  gale,  yet,  rooted,  deep, 
Youth's  hapless  love  lives  through  all  power  of  change  ! 
Too  pure  to  shrink,  too  proud  to  wail  or  weep, 
It  fills  all  things  with  memories  vast  and  strange  ; 
Where'er  the  rainbow  bends  or  sunbeams  range, 
Or  lightning  flames  or  thunder  heralds  God, 
In  ruined  castle  or  romantic  grange, 
It  gathers  flowers  to  clothe  its  native  sod, 
And  o'er  the  birthplace  hangs  where  young  hearts  rushed 
abroad. 


>J  THE  HEART'S  APOCAIAI  >i  . 

The  wasted  heart  retains  its  earliest  glow, 
As  trampled  flowers  their  odour,  not  their  bloom — 
Though  doomed  no  more  the  thrilling  bliss  to  know, 
That  threw  its  angel  glance  beyond  tin-  tornb ; 
Mid  all  that  can  man's  lion  heart  illume, 
Mid  all  his  boundless  hopes,  ambitions,  fears, 
One  image  steals  o'er  all  its  glow  and  gloom, 
Troubling  the  fountain  of  forbidden  tears, 
And  fading  not,  though  borne  far  down  the  sea  of  years. 

The  worn  mind  clings  to  this — this  beautifies 
The  temple  it  must  ruin  ;  all  things  sink 
Into  one  passion  ; — life  of  earth  and  skies 
Becomes  a  freniied  ecstacy  to  drink 
The  poison-cup,  from  which  we  vainly  shrink, 
The  deep  cup  brimmed  with  deathless  destinies ! 
Hurled  on  by  agony,  which  cannot  think, 
We  search  vast  ocean  and  world-studded  skies 
For  one  sweet  home  to  rest  from  griel  that  never  dies. 

Again — and  yet  again,  my  earliest  love — 
Ellen  !  thoit  fabled  Clara  of  my  MH<?  ! 
My  lonely  heart,  unchanged,  is  doomed  to  prove 
A  sleepless  watcher  o'er  thy  nameless  wrong — 
An  unseen  visitant,  who  roams  along 
Thy  desert  way,  and  loves  to  trace  thy  tread, 
Though  downward  tending  where  Oppression  strong 
No  more  can  bow  thy  wildly  throbbing  head, 
Nor  gore  thy  bosom  fair  among  the  sceptered  dead  ! 


THE  HEART'S  APOCALYPSE.  53 

Pale,  chilled,  and  passionless,  thine  image  steals, 
With  wrought  brow,  hollow  cheek,  and  faded  eyes. 
O'er  me  when  most  the  quickened  spirit  feels, 
The  soundless  hour  of  midnight  phantasies ; 
Then  pallid  Memory  on  dark  wings  flies, 
Like  birds  to  Tinian's  isle  from  ocean's  storm, 
To  thee  and  love,  romance  and  May-night  skies, 
And  for  an  hour  it  slumbers  'neath  the  charm, 
That,  as  an  angel  garb,  hath  ever  wrapt  thy  form. 

Then,  in  communion  with  eternal  days, 
I  clothe  my  soul  in  sanctities,  and  yearn 
For  that  restoring  hour  when  scorn  or  praise 
Shall  rnock  no  more  the  heart  that  cannot  learn 
To  quench  the  shrine  where  love's  first  odours  burn ; 
When  courteous  speech  shall  sanction  spotted  crime, 
And  tyrants  from  their  sacrifices  turn 
No  more  exulting,  but,  beyond  all  time, 
True  hearts,  long  sundered,  clasp  in  glory's  realms  sublime. 

We  feast  on  hope  as  't  were  our  vital  food — 
And  linger  o'er  it  with  a  vain  delight  ; 
We  banquet  on  the  air  when  tempests  brood, 
And  breathe  the  rose  when  at  its  heart  is  blight ! 
Misguided,  hopeless  pilgrims  of  the  night, 
Grasping  at  shadows  in  an  unknown  land, 
Victims  of  visions,  gathering  wrong  from  right, 
With  foes  behind  us  and  on  either  hand,  . 
And  led  by  danger  on  where  giant  fiends  command. 


54  THE  HEART'S  APOCALYPSE. 

'  Would  I  had  been  thy  brother !  life  had  then 
Been  pleasant  to  thee,  and  thy  virgin  smile 
Had  lingered  yet — like  twilight  in  the  glen, 
Revealing  a  bright  spirit  !~to  beguile 
Thy  little  cares,  with  deep  and  patient  toil 
To  build  a  quiet  refuge  for  thy  rest, 
To  love  thee  with  a  hallowed  love,  and  pile 
Blessings  around — in  each  myself  most  blest — 
Had  been  my  daily  joy — so  joy  was  in  thy  breast. 

But  thou  art  fated  to  endure  reproof, 
Linked  to  a  serpent  evil  none  can  rend — 
Doomed  to  the  dismal  refuge  of  a  roof 
Whence  hope  was  banished  by  thy  nearest  friend — 
Creating  images  of  woe  where  blend 
All  separate  features  of  thy  own  despair — 
And,  worse  than  madness,  destined  to  depend 
On  him  who  peopled  all  thy  landscape  fair 
With  grief,  repentance,  doubt,  and  cold  and  crushing  care ! 

And  I,  when  vesper  lifts  its  diamond  brow, 
And  zephyrs  glide  in  music  through  the  grove, 
Oft  sink  in  anguish  o'er  thy  fate,  as  now, 
And  sanctify  thy  sacrilege  of  love ! 
Where'er  o'er  earth  my  wayward  passions  rove, 
To  thee  ne'er  faithless,  still  to  Derby's  wood 
They  turn  enchanted — and  ascend  above. 
When  by  that  silent  forest  shore  we  stood, 
Rememberest  thou,  lost  love  ? — the  sun  went  down  in  blood ! 


DESPONDENCY. 


THERE  is  no  bliss  in  being ;  all  in  vain 
We  toil  and  struggle  here ;  in  grief  and  pain 
Born  to  a  world  of  sufferance  and  of  sin, 
And  doomed  to  woo  what  none  can  ever  win, 
Life  is  a  weary  burden,  hard  to  bear, 
Of  dark  offence  and  desolate  despair — 
A  lingering  helplessness — a  quenchless  thirst 
To  taste  and  yet  a  shuddering  o'er  the  worst. 
The  diamond  dawn  of  being — its  blest  hours 
Of  love  and  innocence — young  budding  flowers ! 
Its  earliest  pleasures,  bursting  into  bloom, 
Only  to  blossom  o'er  the  chill  dark  tomb, 
Soon  fade  and  perish,  and  hope's  rosy  light 
Throws  lurid  gloom  o'er  sorrow's  wailing  night, 
Which  shrouds  the  heart  in  such  unmeasured  woe 
As  they,  who  deeply  feel,  alone  can  know. 

Oh,  how  the  heart-pulse  throbs  with  burning  flush 
When  life's  young  feelings  o'er  the  bosom  gush, 
And  earth  unfolds  her  glories  to  the  eye, 
And  angel  harps  are  heard  along  the  sky, 
At  that  sweet  season  when  the  spirit  pours 
Its  starlight  beauty  o'er  the  eternal  shores ! 
What  radiant  forms  glide  through  each  Eden  grove, 
Forms  full  of  loveliness  and  bliss  and  love — 


56  DESPONDENCY. 

Ideal  shapes  from  fancy's  magic  mould, 

Never  beheld  when  the  warm  heart  grows  cold, 

And  the  wan  hue  of  sickly  thought  doth  spread 

O'er  living  brows  the  image  of  the  rdead  ! 

The  glorious  skies,  where  angels  sing  in  praise, 

Their  unfurled  pinions  flashing  heaven's  own  blaze  ; 

The  fair  green  earth — the  vestibule  of  heaven, 

Where  spirits  commune  in  the  dusky  even  ; 

The  wild  lone  main,  with  all  its  worlds  beneath, 

The  dim  mysterious  palaces  of  death  ; 

The  joy  of  thought,  the  rainbow  of  the  mind, 

The  silent  rapture  of  a  soul  refined  ; 

All  cease  to  charm  when  want  and  woe  assail 

The  shuddering  spirit  with  their  spectre  wail, 

E'en  in  the  dayspring  of  confiding  youth 

When  the  pure  bosom  is  the  shrine  of  truth. 

Lost  in  himself  amid  the  false  and  vain, 

Man  looks  abroad  upon  a  world  of  pain 

With  the  cold  eye  of  unobservant  scorn, 

And  wonders  why  this  wretchedness  was  born. 

Oh,  what  is  human  hope  ?  a  viewless  star, 
That  never  shines  upon  us  where  we  are  ; 
A  glimmering  light,  that,  throned  in  other  spheres, 
Only  reveals  the  darkness  of  our  fears ; 
A  world  beyond  all  other  worlds  on  high, 
That  mocks  the  gaze  of  every  mortal  eye ; 
A  realm  of  dreams  this  life  cannot  fulfil, 
Forever  distant,  wander  where  we  will. 
Oft  and  yet  vainly  hath  my  worn  heart  sighed 
For  joys  that  budded  but  to  be  denied ; 


DESPONDENCY.  57 

And  vain  hath  been  my  spirit's  airy  flight — 
It  fell  from  heaven  in  sorrow's  troubled  night, 
And  sunk  below  the  common  hopes  of  man — 
Seared  by  the  lightning  of  my  being's  ban. 
The  loftier  triumphs  of  the  human  breast, 
The  proud  ambition  that  can  find  no  rest, 
The  rainbow  joys  that  glitter  but  to  die, 
And  love,  our  heaven  or  hell  beneath  the  sky — 
All — all  are  vain  !  the  wide  waste  world  is  cursed 
By  ills  and  wrongs — the  wildest  and  the  worst. 

Trust  not  in  man !  confide  not  in  the  best, 
But  lock  thy  counsels  in  thine  own  still  breast ! 
He  loves  thee  not  whose  venal  voice  proclaims 
Vile  paynim  worship  to  dark  Mammon's  names ; 
He  loves  thee  not  who  honours  thee  in  pride 
But  to  reject  when  fortune  is  denied  ; 
He  loves  thee  not,  who,  in  a  darkened  day, 
Leaves  thee  alone  to  track  thy  desert  way, 
Content  to  mutter — "  O,  I  wish  thee  well !" 
When  earth  seems  opening  to  the  nether  hell. 
Trust  not  in  man  !  the  wisest  err  in  ill, 
The  greatest  falter — and  the  human  will 
Grovels  forever  in  the  darkness  cast 
O'er  life  from  the  first  sigh  unto  the  last. 
Friends  are  but  phantoms  in  thy  bitter  need, 
They  counsel  wisely  while  thy  death-wounds  bleed. 
Love  lives  in  deep  delusions  born  of  youth, . 
And  dying  in  the  dawn  of  awful  truth ; 
Faith,  like  the  raven  from  the  ark  sent  forth, 
Wanders  unresting  o'er  the  lonely  earth ; 

8 


58  DESPONDENCY. 

And  hope,  earth's  only  happiness,  doth  nurse 
Wild  thoughts  that  centre  in  a  burning  curse  ! 
Trust  not  in  man  !  confide  not  in  his  faith  ! 
His  tongue  breeds  venom  and  his  spirit — death. 

There  is  no  joy  in  life  ;  its  hopes  and  fears, 
Its  cold  lip-smiles  and  unconsoling  tears, 
Its  woes  that  wither  and  its  toil  that  tires, 
Its  vain  illusions  and  its  false  desires  ; 
The  keen  pursuit,  without  a  settled  aim, 
Of  bootless  power  and  unaccomplished  fame  ; 
The  changes,  chances,  and  unwitnessed  tears, 
The  doubts  that  darken  into  endless  fears ; — 
All  pour  the  bitterness  of  wrath  upon 
The  heart  of  man— earth's  dust  compounded  son  I 
Alas  !  how  poor  is  all  he  seeks  to  pain  ! 
Clothed  with  bright  pleasure  but  replete  with  pain. 
Bright  with  the  colours  fond  self-love  bestows, 
As  mildew  pictures  like  the  morning  rose  ; 
Warm  with  the  deep  glow  of  the  spirit's  fire, 
As  the  dead  earth  beneath  the  victim's  pyre; 
Love  spreads  its  glory  o'er  our  youth,  but  leaves 
The  bosom  blasted,  and  alone  it  grieves. 
Misfortune,  fount  of  pride,  in  silence  sears 
The  purest  feelings  of  our  earlier  years, 
And  dread  dependance  o'er  the  high  mind  throws 
The  robe  of  Nessus  ;  and  our  wants  and  woes 
Blanche  the  fair  cheek  and  furrow  o'er  the  brow, 
And  make  our  progeny  what  we  are  now  ! 


GRAVE  WATCHING. 


BRING  flowers  and  strew  them  here, 

The  loveliest  of  the  year, 
Wither' d,  yet  fragrant  as  her  virgin  fame, 

Who  slumbers  in  this  sunny  spot, 

Yet  to  love's  voice  awaketh  not, 
Nor  hears  in  dreams  her  lover  sigh  her  name. 

Where  woods  o'er  waters  wave 

She  hath  her  early  grave, 
And  summer  breathes  lone  music  o'er  the  scene ; 

It  is  a  green  and  bloomy  place, 

And  smiling  like  her  living  face, 
Whom  memory  weeps  o'er,  sighing  "  She  hath  been!'1 

How  sacred  silence  lies 
With  dreamy  heart-filled  eyes, 
Shedding  its  spirit  o'er  the  wanderer's  heart, 
Beside  the  mound  of  dust, 
Where,  throned,  sit  hope  and  trust, 
Serenely  watching  awful  death  depart. 

In  sooth,  't  were  bliss  to  rest 
On  nature's  rosy  breast 


(50  GRAVE  WATCHING. 

'Mid  all  this  sweetness,  quiet,  faith,  and  love, 

While  heaven's  soft  airs  flit  round 

The  still  and  hallowed  ground, 
And  the  blue  skies  lift  the  pure  soul  above. 

Albeit,  I  can  but  grieve 

That  thou,  pale  girl !  didst  leave 
Thy  lover  lone  in  such  a  world  as  this, 

Yet  tender  is  my  heart's  regret 

As  the  last  beam  of  suns  that  set 
To  rise  again,  like  thee,  my  love  !  in  bliss. 

Then  let  me  linger  here, 

Where  none  of  earth  appear, 
Save  gentle  spirits,  kindred  of  the  skies,     , 

And  muse  beside  the  gushing  spring, 

Where  wild  birds  carol  on  the  wing, 
And  live  as  thou  didst,  love  !  on  harmonies. 

O'er  this  green  bank  of  flowers 

Hover  the  dew-eyed  hours, 
Blending  the  incense  breath  of  earth  and  heaven, 

As  thou  didst  hallow  time 

By  thoughts  and  deeds  sublime, 
And  seal  eternal  bliss  by  wrongs  forgiven. 

Inspire  me  with  thy  soul, 

And,  while  the  seasons  roll, 
No  evil  passion  shall  corrode  my  spirit ! 

I  can  forgive  my  fiercest  foes, 

And  think  not  o'er  inflicted  woes, 
While  I  thy  gentle  soul,  lost  love  !  inherit. 


GRAVE  WATCHING.  »»1 

What  holy  joy  attends 

Such  commerce  with  lost  friends, 
Lost  to  our  eyes  but  living  in  our  minds  ! 

Their  memories  breathe  elysian  bliss 

Around  e'en  such  a  world  as  this, 
Like  Yemen's  odours  borne  on  genial  winds. 

Bring  flowers  and  strew  them  here. 

The  loveliest  of  the  year, 
And  I  will  watch  their  spirits  as  they  part ; 

For  in  a  place  so  green  ^and  still, 

'Mid  wood  and  water,  vale  and  hill, 
My  lost  love  dwells  for  ever  in  my  hearth 


PERE  LA  CHAISE.* 


BEAUTIFUL  city  of  the  dead !  thou  stand'st 
Ever  amid  the  bloom  of  sunny  skies 
And  blush  of  odours,  and  the  stars  of  heaven 
Look,  with  a  mild  and  holy  eloquence, 
Upon  thee,  realm  of  silence !     Diamond  dew 
And  vernal  rain  and  sunlight  and  sweet  airs 
Forever  visit  thee  ;  and  morn  and  eve 
Dawn  first  and  linger  longest  on  thy  tombs 
Crown'd  with  their  wreaths  of  love  and  rendering  back 
From  their  wrought  columns  all  the  glorious  beams, 
That  herald  morn  or  bathe  in  trembling  light 
The  calm  and  holy  brow  of  shadowy  eve. 
Empire  of  pallid  shades  !  though  thou  art  near 
The  noisy  traffic  and  thronged  intercourse 
Of  man,  yet  stillness  sleeps,  with  drooping  eyes 
And  meditative  brow,  forever  round 
Thy  bright  and  sunny  borders  ;  and  the  trees, 
That  shadow  thy  fair  monuments,  are  green 
Like  hope  that  watches  o'er  the  dead,  or  love 
That  crowns  their  memories ;  and  lonely  birds 

*  The  Cemetery  of  Pane. 


J-ERE  LA  CHAISE.  63 

Lift  up  their  simple  songs  amid  the  boughs, 
And  with  a  gentle  voice,  wail  o'er  the  lost, 
The  gifted  and  the  beautiful,  as  they 
Were  parted  spirits  hovering  o'er  dead  forms 
Till  judgment  summons  earth  to  its  account. 

Here  't  is  a  bliss  to  wander  when  the  clouds 
Paint  the  pale  azure,  scattering  o'er  the  scene 
Sunlight  and  shadow,  mingled  yet  distinct, 
And  the  broad  olive  leaves,  like  human  sighs, 
Answer  the  whispering  zephyr,  and  soft  buds 
Unfold  their  hearts  to  the  sweet  west  wind's  kiss, 
And  Nature  dwells  in  solitude,  like  all 
Who  sleep  in  silence  here,  their  names  and  deeds 
Living  in  sorrow's  verdant  memory. 
Let  me  forsake  the  cold  and  crushing  world 
And  hold  communion  with  the  dead !  then  thought, 
The  silent  angel  language  heaven  doth  hear, 
Pervades  the  universe  of  things  and  gives 
To  earth  the  deathless  hues  of  happier  climes. 

All,  who  repose  undreaming  here,  were  laid 
In  their  last  rest  with  many  prayers  and  tears, 
The  humblest  as  the  proudest  was  bewailed, 
Though  few  were  near  to  give  the  burial  pomp. 
Lone  watchings  have  been  here,  and  sighs  have  risen 
Oft  o'er  the  grave  of  love,  and  many  hearts 
Gone  forth  to  meet  the  world's  smile  desolate. 

The  saint,  with  scrip  and  staff,  and  scallop-shell 
And  crucifix,  hath  closed  his  wanderings  here  ; 


t>4  FERE  LA  CHAISE. 

The  subtle  schoolman,  weighing  thistle  down 

In  the  great  balance  of  the  universe, 

Sleeps  in  the  oblivion  which  his  folios  earned ; 

The  sage,  to  whom  the  earth,  the  sea  and  sky 

Revealed  their  sacred  secrets,  in  the  dust, 

Unknown  unto  himself,  lies  cold  and  still ; 

The  dark  eyes  and  the  rosy  lips  of  love, 

That  basked  in  passion's  blaze  till  madness  came, 

Have  mouldered  in  the  darkness  of  the  ground  ; 

The  lover,  and  the  soldier,  and  the  bard — 

The  brightness,  and  the  beauty,  and  the  pride 

Have  vanished — and  the  grave's  great  heart  is  still ! 

Alas,  .that  sculptured  pyramid  outlives 
The  name  it  should  perpetuate  !  alas ! 
That  obelisk  and  temple  should  but  mock 
With  effigies  the  form  that  breathes  no  more. 
The  cypress,  the  acacia,  and  the  yew 
Mourn  with  a  deep  low  sigh  o'er  buried  power 
And  mouldered  loveliness  and  soaring  mind, 
Yet  whisper  "  Faith  surmounts  the  storm  of  death  !" 

Beautiful  city  of  the  dead  !  to  sleep 
Amid  thy  shadowed  solitudes,  thy  flowers, 
Thy  greenness  and  thy  beauty,  where  the  voice, 
Alone  heard,  whispers  love — and  greenwood  choirs 
Sing  'mid  the  stirring  leaves — were  very  bliss 
Unto  the  weary  heart  and  wasted  mind, 
Broken  in  the  world's  warfare,  yet  still  doomed 
To  bear  a  brow  undaunted  !   Oh,  it  were 
A  tranquil  and  a  holy  dwelling-place 


PERE  LA  CHAISE.  65 

To  those  who  deeply  love  but  love  in  vain, 
To  disappointed  hopes  and  baffled  aims 
And  persecuted  youth.     How  sweet  the  sleep 
Of  such  as  dream  not — wake  not—feel  not  here, 
Beneath  the  starlight  skies  and  flowery  earth, 
'Mid  the  green  solitudes  of  Pere  La  Chaise  ! 


AN  EVENING  SONG  OF  PIEDMONT. 


Ave  Maria !  't  is  the  midnight  hour, 
The  starlight  wedding  of  the  earth  and  heaven, 
When  music  breathes  its  perfume  from  the  flower, 
And  high  revealings  to  the  heart  are  given  ; 
Soft  o'er  the  meadows  steals  the  dewy  air, 
Like  dreams  of  bliss,  the  deep  blue  ether  glows, 
And  the  stream  murmurs  round  its  islets  fair 
The  tender  nightsong  of  a  charmed  repose. 

Ave  Maria !  Jt  is  the  hour  of  love, 
The  kiss  of  rapture  and  the  linked  embrace, 
The  hallowed  converse  in  the  dim  still  grove, 
The  elysium  of  a  heart-revealing  face, 
When  all  is  beautiful — for  we  are  blest, 
When  all  is  lovely — for  we  are  beloved, 
When  all  is  silent — for  our  passions  rest, 
When  all  is  faithful — for  our  hopes  are  proved. 

Ave  Maria !  't  is  the  hour  of  prayer, 
Of  hushed  communion  with  ourselves  and  heaven, 
When  our  waked  hearts  their  inmost  thoughts  declare, 
High,  pure,  far-searching  like  the  light  of  even ; 


AN  EVENING  SONG  OF  PIEDMONT.  67 

When  hope  becomes  fruition  and  we  feel 
The  holy  earnest  of  eternal  peace, 
That  bids  our  pride  before  the  Omniscient  kneel, 
That  bids  our  wild  and  warring  passions  cease. 

Ave  Maria  !  soft  the  vesper  hymn 
Floats  through  the  cloisters  of  yon  holy  pile, 
And  'mid  the  stillness  of  the  nightwatch  dim 
Attendant  spirits  seem  to  hear  and  smile  ! 
Hark !  hath  it  ceased  ?  The  vestal  seeks  her  cell, 
And  reads  her  heart — a  melancholy  tale  ! 
A  song  of  happier  years,  whose  echoes  swell 
O'er  her  lost  love  like  pale  bereavement's  wail. 

Ave  Maria !  let  our  prayers  ascend 
For  them  whose  holy  offices  afford 
No  joy  in  heaven — on  earth  without  a  friend — 
That  true  though  faded  image  of  the  Lord  ! 
For  them  in  vain  the  face  of  nature  glows, 
For  them  in  vain  the  sun  in  glory  burns, 
The  hollow  breast  consumes  in  fiery  woes, 
And  meets  despair  and  death  where'er  it  turns. 

Ave  Maria !  in  the  deep  pine  wood, 
On  the  clear  stream  and  o'er  the  azure  sky 
Bland  midnight  smiles,  and  starry  solitude 
Breathes  hope  in  every  breeze  that  wanders  by. 
Ave  Maria !  may  our  last  hour  come 
As  bright,  as  pure,  as  gentle,  heaven  !  as  this  ! 
Let  faith  attend  us  smiling  to  the  tomb, 
And  life  and  death  are  both  the  heirs  of  bliss ! 


THE  IMPERIAL  SACRIFICE, 


This  poem  was  written  at  the  request  of  my  friend  John  Howard  Payne, 
on  the  occasion  of  Charles  X.  laying  the  corner  stone  of  the  monument,  in 
the  square  of  the  Tuilleriea,  to  Louis  XVI. ;  one  of  the  most  unpopular  acts 
which  an  ill-established  monarch  ever  committed. 


Hear  ye  the  rush  that,  like  the  mountain  storm, 

Rolls  deep  and  awfully  along  ? 
Lo !  what  mute  horror,  like  a  sorcerer's  charm. 

Holds  that  upgazing  throng  ! 
Amazed  the  unfettered  vassal  stands 

Before  his  captive  lord  ! 
See  how  he  gazes  on  his  blood-red  hands 
And  shakes  the  purple  drops  from  his  uplifted  sword. 

Where  is  the  monarch  ?  where  his  train 

Of  lords  and  ladies  fair  ? 
And  where  the  adoring  crowd,  whose  hearts,  like  rain 

Or  dew  in  summer's  arr, 
Shed  light  and  joy  and  regal  pride 

Round  Bourbon's  royal  son  I 
Hark !  't  was  a  groan  as  if  a  monarch  died ! 

The  earthquake  has  begun  ! 


THE  IMPERIAL  SACRIFICE. 

How  the  vast  mass  of  human  life  doth  move 
And  tremble  like  an  avalanche  on  high ! 
Flows  such  deep  terror  from  devoted  love 
And  loyal  truth  and  sacred  fealty  ? 

Alas  !  before  the  palace  of  his  sires, 

A  glorious  line  of  kings, 

The  crownless  king  beneath  the  axe  expires — 
The  shout  of  triumph  and  derision  rings. 

. 
Lo  !  where  they  move  in  long  and  dark  array 

With  banner,  pall,  and  shroud  ! 
The  smoke  of  censers  dims  the  eye  of  da'y, 

Religion  cries  aloud ! 
High  o'er  the  pomp  of  royal  funeral  rites 

In  meek  devotion  paid, 

The  uplifted  cross  moves  on  'mid  thousand  lights, 
Where  a  great  nation  like  one  hermit  tread  ! 

How  mournfully,  'mid  chanted  hymn, 

And  requiem  murmured  low, 

And  orisons  round  tapers  dim, 
While  countless  forms  like  shadows  swim, 
The  deep  knell  tolls  a  nation's  wailing  woe  ! 

Why  throng  they  round  the  accursed  spot  ? 

Away  !  it  was  the  deathbed  of  a  king  ! 

O  banished  Bourbon !  knowest  thou  not 

Thy  brother  perished  like  a  felon  here  ? 

O  hearst  thou  not  the  shout  of  madness  ring  f 

And  seest  thou  not  the  badge  of  death  they  bear  ! 

Fly,  chief  betrayed  !  in  silence  fly, 

Thy  throne  is  stained  with  blood  ! 


70  THE  IMPERIAL  SACRIFICE. 

Turn  not  again  thy  blasted  eye — 
They  come !  they  come  !  like  Gierstein's  torrent  Hood, 

Ah  !  'twas  the  daemon  forms  of  other  years, 
That  hurried  o'er  my  brain  ; 
The  miscreant  host  that  drank  a  nation's  tears, 
And  feasted  on  the  slain. 
I  see  them  now — each  gory  brow, 
Each  crimson  hand — in  wrath  they  stand 
E'en  on  the  spot  where  Louis  fell 
And  Austria's  lovely  daughter  died  ! 
They  throng  around  like  shapes  of  hell, 
The  sacred  pomp  of  funeral  pride, 
And  shriek  and  yell  and  hurtle  in  the  air, 
In  vain,  to  mock  the  rites  that  doom  them  to  despair. 

The  sacrifice  is  paid  ! 
Rest,  martyred  Louis  !  in  thy  glory  rest ! 
Thy  riven  crown  is  laid, 
Thy  broken  sceptre  on  thy  bleeding  breast. 
Rest,  for  thy  requiem  hath  been  said  ! 
Rejoice,  thou  hearst  our  prayers  among  the  blest ! 
Here,  on  the  earth  once  hallowed  by  thy  blood, 
O  royal  martyr  !  let  thy  presence  dwell ! 
Where  frantic  murderers  at  thy  death  hour  stood, 
And  o'er  thee  raised  hate's  maddening  yell, 
With  holy  joy  and  sacrificial  praise 
We  build  thy  temple  tomb— thy  mausoleum  raise  ! 


THE  LAST  HOUR  OF  THE  POLONESE. 


COUNT  PULASKT,  banished  from  his  own  ruined  country,  sought  fame  and 
true  glofy  by  his  services  in  the  American  Revolution  ;  and  fell  at  the  siege 
of  Savannah,  while  rallying1  the  flying  forces  of  the  wounded  Admiral  D'Es- 


Vainly  in  battle's  lava  van 

The  highborn  Pole  had  striven ; 
His  warriors  quailed  beneath  the  ban, 

The  doom  of  earth  and  heaven ; 
And  Warsaw's  last  proud  spirit  fled 

Before  the  Cossack  host, 
While  far  and  near  the  unburied  dead 

Shrieked  wildly—"  all  is  lost !" 

Doomed  to  despair,  by  vultures  rent, 

And  blotted  from  the  earth, 
Pale  Poland  to  the  tyrant  bent, 

The  child  of  monarch  birth ! 
And  ravening  hordes  of  serfs  o'erran 

And  sack'd  the  imperial  realm, 
Where  thousand  kings  in  battle's  van 

Had  banner  borne  and  helm. 


72  THE  LAST  iinn:  OF  Tin:  POLONESE. 

Wrenched  from  the  heart  of  nations — thrown, 

A  felon's  quivering  corse, 
A  limb  to  each  accursed  one — 

Could  daemons  spoil  thee  worse  r 
Oh,  how  could  men  behold  nor  stay 

The  bandit  league  of  blood, 
The  deed  of  that  unhallowed  day 

Whose  triumph  none  withstood  ? 

Thou  parted  realm  of  bleeding  hearts ! 

Thrice  widowed  child  of  woe  ! 
The  glory  of  thy  power  Departs 

And  leaves  thee — ah,  how  low ! 
Could  one  of  all  thy  sons  abide 

To  see  the  spoiler's  sword 
Wave  o'er  the  ruins  of  his  pride, 

The  standard  of  his  lord? 

Let  tyrants  vainly  trample  o'er 

The  wreck  of  feeble  men, 
Till  Europe  quakes  from  shore  to  shore 

Like  the  wild  thunder's  glen  ! 
They  cannot  break  or  bend  or  bind 

The  WILL  sublime  and  free, 
Nor  chain  nor  crush  the  immortal  mind — 

Such,  blood  king !  spurn  at  thee. 

Dispersed  like  beams  of  deathless  fire 

The  hunted  Polonese : 
Some  lighted  Stamboul's  funeral  pyre 

Among  the  hills  of  Greece ; 


THE  LAST  HOUR  OF  THE  POLONESE.        73 

Some  o'er  pale  Gaul  their  spirit  cast, 

And  Freedom's  voice  went  up ;  , 

And  some — PULASKI  was  the  last — 
Drank  at  our  trial  cup  ! 

His  sword — his  only  birthright  now, 

His  heart, — his  only  dower, 
His  only  pride — a  soul  to  glow 

O'er  Freedom — hope's  sole  flower ! 
Pulaski  from  the  ruins  sprung 

Of  empire,  shrine  and  throne, 
Back  on  his  foes  a  deep  curse  flung, 

And  wandered  forth  alone ! 

He  rode  upon  the  midnight  wave 

And  dared  the  ocean  wind ; 
The  billow  was  a  happier  grave 

Than  the  earth  he  left  behind  : 
His  spirit  mingled  with  the  main 

And  drank  its  music  then, — 
There  were  no  mounds  of  victims  slain, 

No  screams  of  dying  men. 

He  came  where  Famine  held  her  guard, 

And  giant  Danger  stood ; 
He  was  his  own  one  great  reward 

In  tent  or  field  or  flood ! 
His  eye  amid  the  brave  and  free 

Shone  like  the  brow  of  even — 
The  star  of  empire  yet  to  be — 

The  Aurora  light  of  heaven  ! 
10 


74  TIN:  LAST  norR  OF  TIII: 


His  clarion  voice  to  wrath  awoke 

The  faint  but  fearless  host  ; 
The  lightning  of  his  whirlwind  stroke 

Restored  the  battle  lost  ; 
His  warhorse  sprung  —  ere  carbine  flashed, 

The  foeman  headless  lay, 
And  on,  where  treacherous  wildwoods  crashed, 

He  held  his  victor  way. 

• 

He  soared  his  broidered  banner  high 

O'er  Wissihiccon's  glen, 
And  sent  his  fierce  loud  battlecry 

Through  hosts  of  banded  men  ; 
Wronged  victor  in  a  foreign  war, 

He  laid  his  laurels  down, 
And  rendered  to  a  worshipped  Star 

A  glory  not  its  own. 

When  torrent  War  in  flame  rolled  on 

To  Georgia's  pinewood  heath, 
And  dying  prayer  and  shriek  and  groan 

Called  warriors  to  their  death, 
Like  hope  around  deathbed  despair, 

Pulaski  hurried  by, 
Meek  grandeur  in  his  dauntless  air, 

And  triumph  in  his  eye. 

The  siege  beneath  Savannah's  towers 

Unfolds  its  fearless  ,band, 
Who  count  not  foes  but  wasted  hours 

Dear  to  a  bleeding  land  : 


THE  LAST  HOUR  OF  THE  POLONESE.        75 

Yet  few  in  peril  now  are  blest 

While  thousands  war  within — • 
High  floats  proud  Albion's  scornful  crest — 

Who  shall  the  glory  win  ? 

Soul  of  the  battle  !   son  of  Gaul ! 

Beware  thy  dauntless  tread ! 
The  bastion  shakes — the  ramparts  fall — 

The  dying  and  the  dead 
Lie  mingled  'neath  yon  trembling  tower 

Where  fires  through  darkness  glow — 
On !   on  !   'tis  victory's  chosen  hour ! 

Why  shrink. the  siegers  now? 

Where  is  Pulaski  ?     Where  the  Gaul 

Sheds  life  upon  the  ground, 
Where  Death  stalks  o'er  the  shatter'd  wall, 

And  mad  Rout  cries  around ! 
Hark  !  Flight  and  Terror  hear  his  cry 

And  Glory  lights  his  spear — 
They  mount !  they  mount !  they  fall !  they  fly ! 

Where  is  that  Form  of  Fear ! 

Low  on  the  green  turf  bleeding,  dead ! 

Despair  beside  him  lies, 
Fame  from  his  plume  and  helm  hath  fled — 

The  light  of  all  his  victories  ! 
Who  doth  lament  the  hero  gone  ? 

The  Patriot  falPn  ?     Two  nations  there ; 
Poland,  her  last  devoted  son ! 

Columbia !  her  glory's  heir ! 


THE  CAPTURE  OF  ANDRE. 


'T  was  the  midnight  hour,  when  the  Traitor  bade 

His  country's  foe  adieu, 
And  broken  gleams  of  moonlight  played 

The  dew-dropp'd  foliage  through ; 
The  autumnal  wind,  in  gusty  sighs, 

The  twinkling  forest  fann'd, 
While  JLove  seemed  stooping  from  the  skies, 

To  bless  a  bleeding  land. 

Ill-fated  chief !  youth  on  thy  brow, 

Ambition  in  thy  heart, 
Fame  smiles  in  gladness  on  thee  now — 

Oh,  haste  not  to  depart ! 
A  voice  comes  from  the  wildwood  dim, 

But  breathes  no  midnight  prayer, 
And  vague  vast  forms  like  shadows  swim — 

Lo  !  war  and  death  are  there  ! 

Hark  to  the  sound  of  the  measured  tread  ! 

Mark  yon  quick  shooting  gleam  ! 
Stern  hearts  are  where  that  flash  is  shed — 

Yon  white  tents  are  no  dream; 


THE  CAPTURE  OF  ANDRE.  77 

Thy  path  lies  through  a  host  of  men 

Whose  souls  are  in  their  swords,     v 
And  a  cross  of  shame  is  in  yon  glen — 

They  heed  no  gentle  words. 

Oh !     gallant  is  thy  proud  array, 

But  souls  as  proud  as  thine, 
Like  meteor  lights,  around  thy  way 

In  gloom  of  battle  shine. 
Beware  the  scathe  of  their  patriot  ire ! 

Though  the  Traitor  gives  thee  scope- 
Beware  the  blaze  of  the  beacon  fire  ! 

Or  thou  hast  no  farther  hope. 

On,  on  the  Briton  warrior  goes, 

And  the  Traitor  bids  God  speed ! 
Through  the  banded  line  of  his  sleeping  foes — 

Young  hero  !  take  good  heed ! 
The  woods  are  silent,  but  life  is  there, 

And  the  weapons  of  war  are  round, 
And  a  lone  far  cry  rings  on  the  air — 

Thou  art  on  forbidden  ground ! 

"  Who  rides  so  late  ?"     Three  warriors  start 

From  the  shattered  ravine  dun, 
And  fear  sinks  on  the  Briton's  heart, 

For  his  camp  is  almost  won. 
"  Speak  out  the  watchword  !"  sternly  gleam 

The  bayonets  raised  on  high, — 
He  looked  to  wood  and  field  and  stream, 

But  uttered  no  reply. 


78  I  UK  CAPTURE  OF  ANDRE. 


He  marched  to  death  with  a  daunted  heart, 

For  his  was  the  doom  of  shame ; 
And  his  spirit  shrunk  from  earth  to  part 

With  a  brand  upon  his  name  : 
And  his  sternest  foe  bewailed  the  fate 

That  stained  his  pride  of  mind, 
As  he  stood  in  his  last  hour  desolate,     • 

To  death,  not  shame,  resigned. 

He  looked  to  the  glorious  sun  and  sighed, 

And  to  earth  he  gave  a  tear, 
And  then,  with  a  thought,  he  cast  aside 

The  weight  of  his  grief  and  fear. 
For  a  moment's  lapse  each  panting  breath 

Was  heard  amid  the  crowd, 
Then  the  platform  fell,  and  the  groan  of  death 

Rose  fearfully  wild  and  loud. 


MEMORY'S  REVEALINGS. 


O'ER  life's  brief,  fitful  day, 
Through  the  deep  cypress  vista  of  the  Past, 
Linger  and  watch,  like  pilgrims  on  their  way 

O'er  Afric's  voiceless  waste. 

What  meets  thee  there,  pale  child  ? 
The  glimmering  ghosts  of  being's  happier  years  f 
What  hear'st  thou  ?     Sighs  along  the  whispering  wild, 

Too  full  of  woe  for  tears. 

Gone  to  the  realm  of  Mind, 
To  the  dim  dwellings  of  the  seraphs  gone, 
The  hearts  that  breathed  their  music  on  the  wind — 

And  1  am  left  alone. 

Alone  'mid  Life's  wild  stir, 

Where  toil  o'erwears  and  thought  corrodes  the  frame, 
And  great  Ambition  bears  the  felon's  slur, 

While  Glory's  but  a  name  ! 


80  MEMORY'S 


Grief  and  despair  attend 

My  wayward  wanderings  o'er  the  shadowy  heath, 
Yet,  many  an  image  of  a  long  loved  friend 

Floats  o'er  the  land  of  death. 

O'er  the  quick  spirit's  eye, 

Like  gleams  through  white  clouds  of  Night's  diamond  star, 
Time's  hallowed  memories,  from  their  haunts  on  high, 

Thrill  me  like  things  that  are. 

Oft  to  the  echo  of  my  song 
The  earliest  touches  of  my  lyre  have  wailed 
O'er  him  who  perished  ere  I  cursed  men's  wrong, 

O'er  her  who  never  quailed. 

Yet  there  were  more  —  proud  boys, 
Whose  minds  just  budded  when  the  stem  decayed; 
Whose  bright  eyes  gleamed  with  all  earth's  earliest  joys  — 

And  mirrored  worlds  they  made. 

And  others,  to  whose  spell 
All  spirits  bowed  in  rapture  and  in  bliss, 
Whose  smile  like  incense  on  the  bosom  fell  — 

Doomed  to  the  earth-worm's  kiss  ! 

Electric  Memory  springs 
To  one  whom  years  of  early  love  endeared. 
We  parted  ;  Death  closed  round  him  his  dark  wings, 

He  died  —  but  never  feared. 

• 


MEMORY'S  REVEALING.  81 

* 

Descend,  pale  visions  !  come 
Round  my  dark  spirit  on  your  angel  pinions, 
And  waft  my  prayers  to  heaven's  ethereal  home 
Of  Princedoms  arid  Dominions ! 

Glide,  like  June's  twilight  hues, 
O'er  the  green  mountain  and  its  vale  of  flowers, 
Round  my  lone  path,  and  o'er  its  thorns  diffuse 

Odours  of  lovelier  hours. 

So  my  rough  road  shall  lead, 
Temptation  foiled  and  persecution  scorned, 
Where  youth  no  more  shall  struggle,  toil  and  bleed, 

But  Virtue  reign  adorned. 

So  trial  shall  achieve 

Its  best  reward,  the  conscious  pride  of  Truth, 
And  Love  no  more  o'er  'baffled  transports  grieve, 

In  blest  eternal  youth. 


If 


THE  EUD^EMONIST. 


LAST  night,  o'er  glorious  woods  with  leaves  like  wings, 
Luxuriant  meads  and  orchards  all  in  bloom, 
And  the  glass' d  beauty  of  transparent  springs, 
Which  seem'd  elysium  far  beyond  the  tomb, 
The  sunset  linger' d,  and  threw  o'er  the  gloom 
Radiant  revealments  of  a  holier  trust, 
And,  as  I  gazed,  methought  the  grave's  cold  womb 
Could  never  quench  the  spirit  proud  and  just, 
Nor  dim  the  light  of  God  in  earth's  unhonoured  dust. 

From  their  blue  orbits  in  the  realms  of  air, 
Forth  flash  the  myriad  monarchs  of  the  night, 
Regents  of  heaven  !  who  hold  o'er  man's  despair 
The  silent  empire  of  serene  delight ; 
Gloriously  beautiful  and  deeply  bright, 
Their  emanations  blend  like  music's  breath, 
And  to  the  bosom  thiough  the  enchanted  sight, 
Their  softness  and  their  sanctity  bequeath, 
The  knowledge  how  to  live — the  hallowed  awe  of  death. 

Memory,  melancholy  and  patient  hope 
Attend  your  missions  through  the  midnight  hours, 
Unfaltering  courage  with  life's  ills  to  cope, 
Devotion  kneeling  in  forsaken  bowers, 


THE  EUDAMONIST.  83 

And  breathing  odours  from  youth's  withered  flowers. 
Life,  at  the  best  a  dream  of  happier  spheres, 
A  dim,  vague  vision  while  the  tempest  lowers, 
In  your  soft  light  o'ercomes  its  human  fears, 
Bends  o'er  the  throne  of  thought  and  worships  heaven  in  tears. 

How  burns  the  spirit,  in  its  seraph  mood, 
To  drink  your  mysteries,  the  shadowy  smile 
Of  Him,  who  beautiful  from  chaos'  flood 
Wrought  countless  worlds !  how  boundless  hopes  beguile 
The  heart  that  festers  in  its  earthly  toil, 
And, give  to  night  enchantment,  when  the  mind, 
Untaxed,  untasked,  around  its  shrine  may  pile 
Sweet  buds  of  thought,  whose  fragrance  in  the  wind 
Soars  to  love's  glorious  realm,  by  martyrs  scarce  divined. 

With  awful  reverence  on  my  soul  I  gaze, 
The  echoed  image  of  a  birthless  God, 
The  trembling  shadow  of  Jehovah's  blaze, 
Whose  light  to  heaven  mounts  from  the  buried  sod ; 
On  seraph  wings  electric  thought  abroad 
Rushes  and  floats  on  midnight's  silvery  sea, 
And  from  all  lands  where  human  foot  hath  trod, 
And  all  that  glow  in  fabling  fantasy, 
Return,  with  hoarded  gems,  too  blest  e'en  thus  to  be. 

'Tis  only  when  the  dust,  the  tomb's  dark  dust 

Hath  shrined  our  ashes  that  our  memories  bloom, 

'Tis  only  then  the  intellect  can  thrust 

Aside  the  darkness  of  our  mortal  doom ; 

But  even  now,  though  grovelling  in  the  gloom 


34  THE 


That  broods  perpetual  o'er  the  deeds  of  earth, 
The  soul,  in  hope  of  spotless  life  to  come, 
Drinks  in  quick  glimpses  of  that  deathless  birth, 
Whose  happiest  days  endure  nor  agony  nor  mirth. 

The  evil  know  this  not;  the  stained  in  soul, 
The  sear'd  in  guilt,  the  branded  and  the  lost  ; 
Cains  of  their  kind,  o'er  them  all  seasons  roll, 
Unmark'd,  uncheer'd  by  all  that  gladdens  most  ; 
The  fiendish  calumny,  the  tumid  boast 
Darken  their  sun,  and  wassail  wastes  the  night  ; 
But  to  the  heart  oft  pierced  and  foiled  and  cross'  d, 
Imagination,  steeped  in  nature's  light, 
Brings  highest,  purest  bliss  from  its  empyreal  flight. 

At  Pentecost,  THE  ELEVEN  together  sat, 
Bereaved  of  Him  who  veiled  his  power  and  died, 
The  Omnipotent,  the  Deathless  !  to  his  fate, 
That  hurled  destruction  on  man's  maniac  pride, 
Submitting  meekly  !  poor,  outcast,  belied, 
Netted  by  foes,,  in  danger,  want  and  woe, 
They  talked  of  him,  from  whose  gored,  writhing  side 
Earth's  poor  life  gushed,  while  heaven's  own  radiant  glow 
Revealed  the  Godhead's  brow,  and  nature  shrieked  below. 

Darkened  and  desolate,  and  rent  by  doubt, 

Faith  feebly  soared  though  great  love  held  its  power, 

When  suddenly  high  voices  all  about 

Uttered  their  oracles  at  midnight's  hour, 

And  heaven  illumed  revealed  each  holy  bower 


THE  EUD^EMONIST.  85 

Of  rest  and  bliss,  and  all  spake  tongues  unlearned, 
Adoring  Him  for  this  celestial  dower. 
Then  grieved  hearts  bathed  in  bliss,  for  which  they  yearn'd, 
While  to  the  throne  of  God  the  Spirit  blest  returned. 

And  thus,  though  oft  bewildered  and  astray, 
Oft  crushed  by  cares  and  every  earthly  ill, 
We  yet  sometimes  may  drink  a  wandering  ray 
From  the  pure  fount  of  Deity,  and  fill 
Our  burdened  spirits,  on  the  holy  hill 
Of  the  mind's  Sion,  with  archangel  thought, 
That  well  atones  for  suffering  bravely  still, 
And  soothes  the  soul  which  years  of  woe  have  taught 
To  reap  deep  wisdom  from  each  work  that  God  hath  wrought. 


SUNSET  AT  SEA. 


Armies  of  clouds,  that  with  the  dayspring  rose, 
In  sable  masses  float  and  fade  away  ; 
The  summer-sun — Jehovah's  shadow — glows 
Along  the  shoreless  verge  of  parting  day  ; 
And  Ocean  lifts  his  vast  brow  to  survey 
The  radiance  heaving  like  his  proudest  swell, 
And  gorgeous  companies  in  heaven  delay 
To  drink  new  glory  ere  they  haste  to  tell 
In  Fancy's  phantom  realms,  how  Ocean's  sunset  fell. 

In  storm  and  gloom  morn  came,  and  midday  hung 
Like  a  dark  dream  upon  the  overburdened  brain, 
And  the  worn  mind  o'er  its  creations  flung 
The  hazy  torpor  of  the  listless  main  : 
But  now  to  landsick  voyagers  again 
Fair  heaven  reveals  the  beauty  of  her  brow, 
And,  where  the  wing'd -clouds  sudden  part  in  twain, 
Like  Antisana's  flame  o'er  mounts  of  snow, 
The  evening  sunbeams  #ush,  and  skies  and  waters  glow. 


SUNSET  AT  SEA.  37 

Lo  !  where  the  rainbow — radiant  light  of  love. 
Arch  of  the  Deluge — Hope's  celestial  bride ! 
Metes  the  wild  tempest  in  its  wrath  above, 
And  seems  o'er  doubt,  disaster,  death,  to  guide 
Lone,  trusting  hearts  beyond  the  scorn  of  pride ! 
On  its  fair  height,  methinks,  a  gleaming  throng 
Of  cherubim  repose,  and  seraphs  glide 
Amid  their  choirs,  with  one  most  matchless  song, 
To  waft  His  praise  who  sees  and  shelters  human  wrong. 

Far  o'er  the  billowy  deep  the  summer  sun 
Bursts  like  high  heaven  upon  the  spirit's  eye, 
Or  new-made  angel's  gaze,  when  thought  doth  run 
Down  the  bright  lapses  of  Eternity ; 
Remotest  ocean  and  unfathomed  sky, 
Through  all  their  depths  of  voiceless  mysteries. 
Gleam  at  the  glance  of  BEING  thron'd  on  high, 
And  mind  is  lost  in  what  that  will  decrees, 
Which  holds  its  power  alone  in  two  eternities. 

Bosomed  on  grandeur  'mid  the  purple  host, 
Soft,  blue,  and  beautiful,  the  crystal  heaven 
Looks- down  like  Pity  on  the  fierce  self  lost, 
And  hushes  hearts  that  long  have  bled  and  striven  ; 
And,  with  a  smile  like  that  of  sin  forgiven, 
Seems  to  allure  the  unhappy  to  its  breast, 
Where  GOD'S  high  messengers,  at  morn  and  even, 
Come  from  the  diamond  mansions  of  the  blest 
To  whisper  oracles  and  soothe  the  soul  to  rest. 


-I    NSKT  AT  ,SEA. 

So  through  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of  earth, 

The  vain  habiliments  we  weave  in  woe, 

The  gentle  hours,  that  blessed  our  joyful  birth, 

• 

Come  o'er  us  with  a  bland  and  budding  glow. 
In  youth  we  feel,  in  manhood  search  and  know  : 
One  for  enjoyment,  and  the  other,  Fame  ! 
Oh,  happier  far  to  treasure  and  bestow 
The  diamonds  of  the  heart,  than  crown  a  name, 
And  shrine  a  memory  here,  where  first  Oblivion  came. 

Before  the  faint  breeze,  o'er  the  slumbering  Deep, 
The  clouded  ship  without  a  sound  moves  on ; 
And  now  the  clear  horizon  seems  to  sleep 
In  that  soft  sea  of  light,  as  on  a  throne, 
Where  all  the  clouds  adore  the  triumph  won, 
And  throng  around  the  sun's  immortal  shrine  ; 
They  rise,  sink,  burn — and,  ere  the  crimson's  gone, 
The  purple  robes  them  in  a  garb  divine, 
Till  dusky  death  hastes  on,  and  utters  "All  are  mine !" 

Where  sea  and  sky,  like  love  and  beauty  meet, 
The  illumined  vapour  revels  in  the  breeze  ; 
So  deep  its  brilliance,  and  its  smile  so  sweet, 
So  awful  in  their  silence,  trackless  seas, 
With  all  their  wild  and  maddening  mysteries, 
Methinks  I  sail  on  that  charm'd  visioned  wave, 
The  saint  in  Patmos  saw — where  deathless  trees 
By  mirror' d  waters  bloom,  and  princedoms  lave 
Their  wings  of  thousand  eyes — beyond  earth's  dungeon 

grave. 
I 


SUNSET  AT  SEA.  89 

And  yon  the  shore  of  Paradise,  the  home 
Of  wrecked  affections  and  unblest  desires, 
And  hopes  that  fed  on  poison  !  thither  come 
The  forms  that  shadowed  sorrow's  wasting  fires, 
The  hearts  that  glowed  along  the  thrilling  wires ; 
And  voices,  wafted  on  the  holy  air, 
Echo  the  music  of  archangel  lyres, 
And  many  a  child  of  sin,  in  Love's  high  prayer, 
Adores  the  power  benign  that  rescued  from  despair. 

Wedded  to  images  of  lonely  thought, 
Linked  to  the  dim  world  of  past  revelries, 
The  mind  that  long  unto  itself  hath  wrought 
Fairy  enchantment  from  whate'er  it  sees, 
Creates  a  shrine  in  every  cloud  that  flees ; 
Temples  and  chateaux,  groves  and  meadows  bright 
With  violet  smiles,  that  perfume  every  breeze, 
And  towers  and  palaces,  in  that  deep  light, 
With  the  old  look  of  pride  salute  the  radiant  sight. 

And  in  those  wing'd  and  wandering  mansions  dwell 
Affections,  thoughts,  hopes,  fears,  and  transports  past, 
The  blighted  love,  that  like  Phaeton  fell, 
The  great  ambition,  like  a  shadow  cast 
O'er  the  dead  solitude  of  Barca's  waste ! 
And  through  the  blue  and  glorious  boundlessness, 
To  each  sweet  star  that  visited  our  last 
And  wild  farewell,  our  visions  haste  to  bless 
Hours  happier  for  their  doubt,  and  victors  of  distress. 


90  SUNSET  AT  SEA. 

Thou  sacred  Tempe  of  the  wearied  mind ! 
Hope  in  stern  trial — home  in  wildest  storm ! 
Imagination  ! — wing'd  upon  the  wind, 
Child  of  the  rainbow,  gifted  with  a  charm, 
That  sanctifies  the  heart,  and  keeps  it  warm 
With  beautiful  humanities — delay, 
While  years  depart,  and,  in  all  trouble,  form 
Thine  airy  armies  round  me,  though  my  way 
Should  lead  o'er  Hecla's  fires,  or  orient  Himmaleh  ! 

Thou  to  our  mood  dost  fashion  outward  things, 
And  all  the  chainless  elements  combine 
To  shed  the  bloom  without  the  bitter  stings, 
That  panoply,  O  Earth  !  each  flower  of  thine  ! 
Thus  in  blest  solitude  we  grow  divine 
With  a  far  higher  nature  than  our  own, 
And  follow  Hope  along  her  golden  line, 
While  mingle  smile  and  sigh  and  mirth  and  moan, 
To  that  bright  realm  of  dreams  where  Mercy  holds   her 
throne. 

Thus,  in  the  solitude  of  Ocean,  come 
Thrilling  revealments  of  a  holier  state, 
Great  thoughts  that  struggle  for  their  native  home, 
Deep  feelings  tortured  in  the  cell  of  fate, 
Fame  crushed  J)y  falsehood,  love  by  causeless  hate ; 
And,  floating  on  the  wave  that  cannot  rest, 
E'en  Death  becomes  companion,  courteous  mate, 
And  friend  and  counsellor — and  he  is  blest 
Who  robes  Life's  tempest  with  the  rainbow  of  the  breast. 


HOPE. 


Like  the  foam  oh  the  billow 

As  it  heaves  o'er  the  deep, 
Like  a  tear  on  the  pillow 

When  we  sigh  in  our  sleep  , 
Like  the  syren  that  sings, 

We  cannot  tell  where, 

Is  the  fond  hope  that  brings 

, 
The  night  of  despair. 

Like  the  starlight  of  gladness 

When  it  gleams  in  death's  eye, 
Or  the  meteor  of  madness 

In  the  spirit's  dark  sky  ; 
Like  the  zephyrs  that  perish 

With  the  breath  of  their  birth, 
Are  the  hopes  that  we  cherish — 

Poor  bondmen  of  earth  ! 

The  pleasures  and  pains, 

That  pass  o'er  us  below — 
Fade  like  colours  and  stains 

On  the  cold  winter's  snow  ; 


HOPE. 

All  the  loves  of  the  bosom 
That  burns  with  delight, 

Are  mildew' d  in  blossom 
And  witherM  with  blight. 

The  sunbeam  of  feeling 

Lights  the  ruins  of  love, 
And  sorrow  is  stealing 

O'er  the  visions  above ; 
Like  a  spirit  unblest 

Hope  wanders  alone, 
With  a  heart  ne'er  at  rest 

In  the  future  or  gone. 

She  drinks  from  time's  cup 

The  bright -nectar  of  heaven, 
And  her  spirit  mounts  up 

'Mid  the  glories  of  even ; 
But  the  world  drugs  with  bane 

The  chalice  of  joy, 
And  the  storm  o'er  the  plain 

Descends  from  the  sky. 

From  the  bowers  of  repose 

Like  a  spectre  she  starts, 
And  she  breathes  the  spring's  rose 

O'er  the  depths  of  all  hearts  ; 
But  fancy  and  feeling 

Must  vanish  in  sorrow, 
Struck  hearts  have  no  healing — 

Hope  sighs  o'er  to-morrow. 


STANZAS, 
Written  in  the  Park  of  Versailles,  May  19,  1826. 


O'ER  the  bright  lawns  of  lilied  France  arise 
The  purple  lights  that  herald  springtime  morn, 

And  perfume  floats  along  the  pale  blue  skies 

Of  countless  flowers  from  shower  and  sunlight  born. 

The  daybreak  zephyrs  breathe  their  rosy  balm, 
Bland  music  melts  along  the  olive  wood — 

All  nature  smiles  in  joy's  elysian  charm, 
The  magic  of  the  world's  deep  solitude. 

Morning's  young  glories  with  their  radiance  gild 
Park,  vineyard,  garden,  forest,  field  and  tower, 

And  fairy  flowerbells,  with  night's  pearl  dew  filled, 
Breathe  beauty  o'er  the  sweetness  of  the  hour. 

How  silent  all !  the  monarch  spell  is  gone, 

That  shed  its  bliss  through  every  bosom  here  ; 

Earth's  fairest  palace  yonder  stands  alone, 
No  voice  is  heard — no  waiting  forms  appear. 


94  STAN/AS. 

None  but  the  sentinel's — whose  hollow  tread 
Wakes  moaning  echoes  in  the  faded  halls. 

That  sound  along,  like  sighings  of  the  dead, 
The  ruined  grandeur  of  those  kingly  walls. 

All  else  is  silent  as  the  realms  of  shade, 

And  fountains  gush  and  forests  wave  in  vain  ; 

The  slave  commanded  and  the  king  obeyed, 
And  wild  mirth  mocks  at  desolation's  reign. 

Oh !  'tis  a  weary  and  a  wasting  thought, 

The  mirth  and  madness — triumph  and  despair  ; 

The  pride  and  pomp — the  deaththroe  and  the  nought 
That  crown  with  ruin  scenes  so  heavenly  fair. 

It  glooms  the  light  of  love  and  chills  the  mind, 

This  awful  dream  of  desolating  years  ! 
In  vain,  flowers  breathe  upon  the  blooming  wind, 

When  every  bud  is  wet  with  misery's  tears. 

Here  blood  like  torrents  poured  in  fierce  affray 
When  anarch  massacre  swept  o'er  the  land  ; 

Here  groaned  the  gored  Swiss  in  the  trampled  way 
When  proud  France  quailed  beneath  a  mob's  command. 

Here  Almaine's  loveliest  daughter — queen  of  mirth, 
Reigned  and  rejoiced  amid  her  glittering  train  : 

Here  terror  hurried  o'er  the  shuddering  earth, 
And  death  in  darkness  came — led  on  by  pain. 


STANZAS.  95 

Could  nature  speak — could  every  matchless  flower 

The  demon  deeds  of  other  days  attest, 
What  startling  tales  of  tyrant  treason's  power 

Would  rise  in  throbs  from  every  violet's  breast ! 

How  every  statue  from  its  throne  would  start ! 

And  every  sculptured  lip  grow  quick  with  words  ! 
Words  whose  deep  accents  chill  the  quivering  heart, 

And  pierce  like  arrows  plumed  or  fiery  swords. 

Oh,  give  me  back  my  wildwood  home  again, 
The  8eep  lone  forest  where  the  tread  of  crime, 

The  shriek  of  woe,  the  clank  of  traitor's  chain 
Fall  like  an  omen  on  the  ear  of  time. 

Here  memory  blasts  the  wreath  that  beauty  weaves, 
And  the  heart  sickens  o'er  the  bowers  of  death ; 

Stern  truth  the  dreaming  soul  of  bliss  bereaves, 
Earth's  highest  glory  hangs  upon  a  breath. 

'Tis  morn — why  wake  not  Gallia's  monarch  train  ? 

Closed  the  dim  casements — silent  every  tower. 
Ring  out  the  matin  chimes  !  more  loud,  again  ! 

Proclaim  the  Levee  !  cry  the  banquet  hour  ! 

Still  the  proud  palace  seems  a  sealed  tomb, 
The  glorious  sepulchre  of  gorgeous  kings, 

Wrapt  in  the  grandeur  of  a  living  gloom, 
Where  spirits  flit  on  dim  and  shadowy  wings. 


STAN /.AS. 

Yet  by  each  fountain  where  the  tritons  sport 
With  naiads  'raid  the  water's  sunny  play, 

Methinks,  the  shades  of  other  years  resort, 
Bask  in  the  bloom  and  bless  the  purple  day. 

For  o'er  a  scene  so  passing  fair  as  this 
Spirits  must  hover  in  the  charm  of  love, 

And  deem  it  still  the  haunt  of  angel  bliss, 

The  realm  of  blessedness  and  light  and  love. 

But,  even  here,  'mid  all  that  thralls  the  eye, 
Dark  thoughts  and  bitter  memories  will  conic  ; 

Though  beauty  dwells  in  fairy  earth  and  sky, 
Yet  lovelier,  happier  is  my  own  far  home. 


THE  DISINTERRED  MASTODON. 


"  Made  desperate  by  too  quick  a  sense 
Of  constant  infelicity ;  cut  off 
Prom  peace  like  exiles  on  some  barren  rock. 
Their  life's  sad  prison,  with  no  more  of  ease 
Than  sentinels  between  two  armies  set." — ANON. 

Thy  name  is  princely.    Though  no  poet's  magic 
Could  make  Red  Jacket  grace  an  English  rhyme, 

Unless  he  had  a  genius  for  the  tragic, 
And  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime. 

Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 
Of  thine  own  land ;  and  on  her  herald-roll, 

As  nobly  fought  for,  and  as  proud  a  token 
As  Cceur  de  Lion's  of  a  warrior's  soul. — HALLECK, 

Dark  mouldered  relique  of  an  elder  time  ! 
Wreck  of  some  fierce  convulsion,  all  untold ! 
Revealing  voice  of  glory  and  of  crime — 
Of  plenty's  golden  years — of  garments  rolled 
In  blood  of  bondage  to  which  madness  sold 
The  trusters  of  the  traitors !  from  the  ground 
Thou  risest,  giant  of  the  days  of  old  ! 
Scattering  thy  pale  dust  on  the  earth  around, 
Of  buried  monarchies  to  tell  without  a  sound. 

13 


98  THE  DISINTERRED  MASTODON. 

The  deep  wild  forest,  where  the  wailing  wind 
Moans  its  lone  dirge  o'er  doomed  and  banished  kings, 
Where  gushed  the  fearless  heart  and  soared  the  mind 
Of  angel  nature  on  its  glorious  wings ; 
The  prairie's  vast  green  solitude — the  springs, 
That  from  hill  fountains  sung  through  glimmering  wood, 
Echoing  the  music  of  imaginings  : 
O'er  these  thou  oft  hadst  trod  ere  guilt  and  blood 
Rained  daemon  curses  on  the  holy  solitude. 

Ohio's  marge — Wisconsin's  mountain  land 
Were  prophets  of  thy  footsteps,  and  thy  tread, 
Like  the  far  tempest's  sigh,  came  o'er  that  band 
Of  dauntless  warriors,  on  whose  crested  head 
Rested  the  Atlas  empire.     O  ye  dead  ! 
Your  godlike  energies  would  once  outdare 
The  bison  and  the  mammoth  ;  never  fled 
The  unsuccoured  red  man  from  most  hopeless  lair, 
Nor  shrunk  your  hero  chiefs  from  last  and  worst  despair. 

The  spirit  of  a  day  that  knew  not  fear 
Was  on  them  ere  the  subtle  fiend  of  gain 
Baffled  and  blasted  all  they  hoarded  dear, 
And  left  them  not  till  poverty  and  pain, 
Abasement  and  disease,  with  all  their  train, 
Bowed  the  proud  monarchs  to  the  earth  in  shame. 
Then  fell  the  sun  they  ne'er  will  see  again, 
Then  darkness  brooded  o'er  their  ancient  fame, 
And  doubt  and  dust  and  death  effaced  each  trophied  name. 


THE  DISINTERRED  MASTODON.  99 

From  Katahelin  to  the  Chippewan, 
From  fair  Mohegan  to  the  Oregon, 
Thrilled  the  bright  spirit  of  immortal  man — 
Earth  gloried  in  the  Nation's  humblest  son ! 
But  time  and  truth  and  all  the  vision  's  gone — 
The  Ozark  mountains  o'er  the  wreck  of  crime, 
The  living  sepulchre  of  ruin  moan, 
Yet  their  bold  spirits,  in  their  woe  sublime, 
Like  dying  volcans,  glare  o'er  the  dark  sea  of  time. 

From  Daraariscotta  the  strong  Norridgewock 
Went  forth  and  dared  Pejypscot's  boiling  flood, 
The  winter  night,  the  storm,  the  beetling  rock, 
The  wily  foeman  ambushed  in  the  wood  ; 
The  Narragansett,  in  his  simple  mood, 
Nourished  the  child  that  sacked  his  secret  hold, 
And  drank  Miantonimoh's  guiltless  blood  : 
And  Metacom,  the  hero,  sage  and  bold, 
Battled  for  crown  and  life  until  his  heart  was  cold. 

And  this  is  all  your  chronicle — huge  bones 
Mouldering  beneath  the  woods  of  ages — ye! 
Round  whose  green,  living,  and  all-worshipped  thrones 
Hurried  a  thousand  tribes — dark  destiny ! 
Couldst  thou  not  spare  the  good,  the  just,  the  free  ? 
The  priests  of  nature  and  the  kings  of  joy  f 
And  must  these  bones  be  offered  up  to  thee, 
Moloch  of  gain  !  why  quake  not  earth  and  sky 
When  the  Last  Chief  is  shown- — a  beggar's  mockery  ! 


100  THE  DISINTERRED  MASTODON. 

In  vain,  devoted  people  of  the  leaves  ! 
Your  Lalage*  called  on  Ishtohoolo'st  name — 
The  iron  heart  that  crushes,  never  grieves 
O'er  its  black  orgies,  and  earth-seeking  shame 
Visits  no  spirit  whose  assassin  fame 
Is  hell's  own  lucre.     The  reward  will  come, 
The  retribution  of  the  gory  game, 
And  Logan  yet  shall  utter  Cresap's  doom, 
And  glutted  havoc  turn  the  mad  destruction  home. 

Hopeless  remorse  and  helpless  agony 
Shall  gnash  and  rend  the  slayers,  for  your  doom 
Invokes  meet  vengeance  from  the  eternal  sky, 
The  bolt  that  hurtles  through  the  quivering  gloom. 
Then  tremble  thou,  hoar  tyrant !  in  thy  home 
Of  parricidal  power !   a  nation's  curse 
Shall  crown  Tecumseh's  and  the  years  to  come 
Shall  load  thy  deathbed  and  unhonoured  hearse 
With  anguish,  shame,  despair,  till  none  could  wish  thee  worse. 

Gone  from  your  beautiful  and  glorious  clime, 
Trampled  and  spurned  and  crushed  by  foes  in  power, 
Drenched  and  devoured,  without  a  single  crime, 
By  the  fiend's  fire,  that  tempts  ye  in  the  hour 
Of  outcast  bondage,  with  youi  dreadful  dower 
Blending  the  ruin  of  woe's  gift — to  feel — 
Ye  yet  may  tell  your  tyrants  in  their  bower, 
That,  where  your  slaughtered  fathers  wont  to  kneel, 
Your  blood  will  sow  the  soil  with  curses  on  their  weal. 

*  Counsellor?)  and  priest*.  t  The  protecting-  deity. 


SONNET. 


YE  eyes  of  Heaven !  what  forms  behind  you  wear 
Such  radiant  glories  as  ye  shed  on  earth  ? 
Where  is  the  Eden  of  their  heavenly  birth, 
Oh,  where  the  dwellings  of  those  shapes  of  air  ? 
Perchance,  loved  ones  who  felt  like  us  despair, 
And  all  the  sickening  ills  of  this  world's  dearth, 
Franchised  from  clay,  may  now  come  hurrying  forth, 
To  waft  above  each  heart-revealing  prayer, 
To  listen  to  each  sorrow  of  our  lot, 
And  tell  earth's  children,  with  a  voice  of  light, 
They  dwell  forever  in  their  holy  sight, 
And  never  can  in  glory  be  forgot ! 
Love,  the  pure  fountain  of  all  mind,  imparts 
Its  bliss  and  beauty  to  the  heaven  of  hearts. 


THE  STAR  OF  MEMORY. 


Life !  life !  how  many  Scyllas  dost  thou  hide 

In  thy  calm  depths,  which  sooner  kill  than  threaten  7 

PHINEAS  FLETCHER. 

O'ER  the  lone  temple  of  my  secret  mind, 
That  stands  unnoted  'mid  the  pomp  of  men, 
Beam,  star  of  memory!  ever  mild  and  kind, 
And  wake  the  slumbering  thoughts  of  youth  agen, 
That  every  green  hillside  and  shadowy  glen, 
Peopled  by  angel  visitants,  may  bring 
Once  more  the  sinless  hours  of  pleasure  when 
The  pure  bright  Spirit  o'er  the  world  could  fling 
The  beauty,  light  and  bloom  of  one  unchanging  spring ! 

Bliss  of  my  childhood  !   sister  of  my  soul ! 
Oft  o'er  thy  name  my  voiceless  spirit  sighs, 
As  my  path  wanders  and  the  fleet  years  roll, 
And  disappointments  darken  on  my  eyes. 
Oft  through  the  depths  of  vast,  blue,  glorious  skies 
My  yearning  though  bereaved  thoughts  sadly  roam, 
Painting  thy  form  'mid  those  effulgencies 
That  glow  forever  round  thy  heavenly  home, 
Whence  thy  soft  smiles  effuse  o'er  trial  days  to  come. 


THE  STAR  OF  MEMORY.  103 

Thou  wert  my  starlight,  sister !  holy  truth, 
Thrilling  devotion  and  immortal  love 
With  seraph  robes  of  beauty  clothed  thy  youth, 
That  breathed  the  mildness  of  the  snow-winged  dove ; 
At  eve,  accustomed  by  thy  side  to  rove 
From  toil  unsolaced,  unrewarded,  o'er 
The  new-mown  meadows  where  the  flock  and  drove 
Gleaned  after  harvest,  thoughts,  bound  down  before, 
Gushed  from  their  unsealed  spring,  with  thee  on  high  to  soar. 

For  in  thy  dayspring  not  of  earth  wert  thou, 
And  feeling,  mother  of  event,  foretold 
That  malady  should  blanche  thy  beaming  brow, 
Quench  that  sweet  eye  and  leave  that  fresh  heart  cold ; 
Yet  not  in  fear,  but  grief,  didst  thou  behold 
The  hastened  vision  of  thine  early  end, 
And  from  the  sacred  wisdom,  stored  of  old, 
Thy  sorrow  with  the  slow  discourse  did  blend 
Full  many  a  promise  blest  to  soothe  thy  weeping  friend. 

Thy  widowed  parent  and  thy  brother  heard, 
Cherubic  Spirit !  thy  pure  breath  depart ; 
Thy  meek  religion  in  our  bosoms  stirr'd, 
And  hushed  our  dreadful  hopelessness  of  heart ; 
For  well  we  knew  thine  was  the  better  part, 
That  sin  could  never  stain  thy  spotless  mind, 
Nor  evil — [jaguar  of  the  world's  dark  mart — 
Torture  thy  nature  and  thy  bosom  bind 
With  chains  of  agony — and  so  we  grew  resigned. 


104  THE  STAR  OF  MEMORY. 

Cease  thy  vain  workings,  memory  !  and  be  still, 
And  let  me  not  repine  o'er  fading  dreams 
Of  lost  affection  that  with  anguish  fill 
A  wronged  and  troubled  heart !     Thy  beauty  gleams 
Through  being's  storm,  and  by  its  hallowed  beams 
Watches  pale  melancholy  unto  its  rest, 
Where  the  rapt  soul  with  truth  prophetic  deems 
It  holds  communion  with  thee,  Sister  blest ! 
And  sinks  away  from  grief  on  thine  ethereal  breast. 


SONNET. 


WELCOME,  Angelo  !  to  a  world  of  care ! 
Fair  firstborn  of  my  youth,  thou  'rt  welcome  here  ! 
Thy  smile  can  charm  away  the  world's  despair, 
And  light  a  rainbow  in  the  heart's  wild  tear. 
Thy  fine  intelligence,  thy  winning  ways, 
Thy  deep  affection  in  life's  first  hours  blown, 
Thy  father's  spirit,  like  a  mantle,  thrown 
About  thee,  studded  by  the  pearly  rays 
That  float  like  music  round  the  faery  soul 
Of  thy  mild  cheerful  mother,  with  her  smiles 
Beaming  like  starlight  o'er  the  ocean's  isles, 
That  oft  deep  sorrow  from  my  heart  have  stole — 
These  blend  ;  my  boy  !  in  thy  dark  ardent  eyes 
Like  zodiacs  in  the  depth  of  heaven's  deep  skies  ! 


14 


THE  DAWN  OF  THE  DECADE.* 


Long  had  I  listened,  free  from  mortal  fear. 

With  inward  stillness  and  submitted  mind. 
When  lo !  its  folds  far  waving  on  the  wind. 

I  saw  the  train  of  the  departing  year ! 

How  I  re-centre  my  immortal  mind 
In  the  deep  Sabbath  of  meek  self-content ; 
Cleansed  from  the  vaporous  passions  that  bedim 
God's  image,  sister  of  the  Seraphim ! — COLERIDGE. 


FROM  the  dim  shrine  of  ages  come  thou  forth, 
Bright  year !  in  thy  pure  robe  of  light  and  love, 
And  shed  upon  the  changed  and  darkened  earth 
The  empyreal  hues  that  ever  bloom  above  ! 
•  Come  forth,  ye  destined  days  !  and  gently  move 
Along  the  dream-land  of  youth's  gay  romance, 
And,  with  a  prophet's  holy  gladness,  prove 
The  visions  true  that  glitter  in  your  glance, 
As  on  to  years  of  joy  their  fairy  steps  advance  ! 

*  Ten  years,  from  1830  to  1840. 


THE   DAWN   OF   THE   DECADE.  107 

Deep  shadows  hide  revealments  of  events, 
That  brood  in  thy  dark  bosom  ;  but  thy  knell 
Sounds  through  the  solitudes  of  being,  whence 
Time  startles  on  our  gaze,  the  doom  to  tell 
Of  myriads  trembling  o'er  the  last  farewell ; 
And  vague  presages  of  the  awakened  mind 
On  the  broad  skirts  of  thy  cloud-banner  swell, 
And  voiceless  prophecies  float  on  the  wind 
To  bid  the  evil  fear — the  good  to  be  resigned. 

The  chill  night  airs  moan  in  the  withered  grass, 
The  tedded  grain  is  garner'd  up — the  flock 
With  bowed  heads  quiver  as  the  frost-fiends  pass, 
And  seek  the  shelter  of  the  beetling  rock  ; 
The  leafless  woods  with  dismal  voices  mock 
The  storm-king  as  he  rides  through  cheerless  skies, 
And  the  deep  mountain  feels  the  rushing  shock 
Of  winter,  on  whose  bosom  nature  dies, 
And  birds,  leaves,  flowers  and  streams  forsake  their  plea 
santries. 

The  son  of  toil  from  mead  and  field  retires, 
Stores  the  rich  maize  and  serves  the  generous  steed, 
Content  with  health  and  hope  and  honest  sires, 
Who  knew  not  wealth,  remorse,  nor  bitter  need  ; 
While,  'mid  the  city's  pomp,  wrung  bosoms  bleed, 
And  riot  laughs  'mid  naked  misery's  cries, 
Trembling  with  anguish  like  a  desert  reed, 
And  plumed  and  banner' d  fashion  flaunts  the  skies 
With  mockeries  of  earth's  woe  and  glittering  pageantries. 


108  TIIF:  DA\V\  OF  THE  DEC  A  DM. 

This  hath  been  ever  ;  callous  pomp  preludes 

The  burglar's  dark  atrocities,  and  crime 

Haunts  the  pale  prodigal  and  around  him  broods 

O'er  midnight  deeds  that  steep  the  heart  of  time. 

Condemned  and  banished  from  hope's  sunny  clime, 

Wedded  to  guilt  by  desolation's  curse, 
•    Youth's  better  thoughts  and  manhood's  aim  sublime 

Vanish  before  despair  that  follies  nurse, 
And  leave  the  victim  where  no  change  could  make  him 
worse. 

Bring  forth  the  criminal,  stern  justice  !  hale 
The  offender  to  atone  for  edicts  broken  ! 
Who  comes  ?  the  quivering  outcast,  wild  and  pale  f 
No,  't  is  Society,  whose  voice  hath  spoken 
Ruin  to  hopelessness ;  and  many  a  token, 
'Mid  its  vain  blazon,  ratifies  the  deed  ! 
But  who  shall  doom  the  tyrant,  whom  no  ken 
Can  track  or  power  condemn  f     Let  justice  read 
The  uttered  will  of  GOD  and  see  the  assassin  bleed  ! 

Time  to  the  cold  extortioner  can  bring 
No  joy  but  gold,  no  profit  but  increase ; 
A  frozen  sea,  his  heart  can  never  spring 
To  shield  the  friendless  and  shed  holy  peace 
On  life's  wild  ocean  ! — for  the  golden  fleece, 
Though  th'  Argo's  slave,  he  suffers,  tortures,  bends 
To  baseness,  courts  contempt,  and  may  not  cease 
To  feast  on  agonies,  making  fit  amends 
For  a  hoar  age  of  guilt  by  bribery  when  it  ends. 


THE  DAWN  OF  THE  DECADE.          109 

But  years  on  poverty  confer  the  bliss 
Of  a  near  close,  and  guide  the  weary  soul, 
Through  penitence,  to  meet  the  Earth-King's  kiss 
With  an  abiding  faith,  that  may  control 
The  dread  and  awe  that  o'er  all  spirits  roll ; 
Wearied  by  toil  uncheered,  the  child  of  grief 
Resigns  his  portion  of  earth's  bitter  dole, 
Wraps  his  worn  thoughts  in  blest  Religion's  sheaf, 
And  lies  down  to  his  rest  secure  of  long  relief. 

Ye  hasten  on,  devoted  days  !  and  bear 
Change,  trial,  peril  on  your  awful  wings, 
Unsuccoured  suffering  and  unwitnessed  care, 
The  wreck  of  empires  and  the  fall  of  kings ! 
Oh,  thickly  crowd  most  dread  imaginings 
Of  all  that  man  must  bear  ere  love  can  link 
The  amities  of  life — ere  mercy's  springs, 
Unsealed,  flow  forth  for  passion's  slaves  to  drink, 
And  men,  from  bondage  loosed,  may  utter  what  they  think. 

Weep,  vigil  stars  !  be  veiled,  thou  queen  of  light ! 
Eye  of  the  universe,  great  sun  !  retire  ! 
For  War,  in  hauberk  mail,  comes  up  through  night 
To  kindle  on  GOD'S  shrine  earth's  idol  fire ; 
And  paynim  banner  and  unholy  lyre 
Mock  the  great  rites  by  martyrs  offered  there ; 
Heathen  and  atheist,  in  hate's  fierce  desire, 
Band  their  bold  legions  with  the  fiends  of  air, 
And  Antichrist  leads  on  to  trample  and  to  tear. 


110  TIII:  j).\\v.\  OF  Tin:  DECAMI:. 

The  King  of  Sabaoth  shall  meet  the  foe, — 
Wreck  and  convulsion  herald  Him  along, 
And  the  hills  quiver  and  vast  oceans  glow 
Before  His  presence !  stained  and  troubled  long, 
His  true  adorers  shall  uplift  their  song, 
And  rebel  armies  mingle  with  the  dust ! 
Then  unbelief,  woe,  want  and  sin  arid  wrong 
Shall  sink  to  Hades,  and  the  true  and  just 
A  thousand  years  rejoice  in  their  immortal  trust ! 

Beautiful  vision !     Poesy  hath  had 
Her  multitude  of  dreams — her  holy  bowers, 
Creatures  of  purity  and  brightness,  clad 
With  the  soul's  sunshine,  crowned  by  deathless  flowers. 
Breathing  heaven's  joy  and  leading  on  the  hours ; 
But  none  so  fair  as  this — oh,  who  shall  see 
The  maranatha  broken  f  the  dark  towers 
Of  insult  and  oppression  low  ?  or  be, 
When  dawns  the  day  of  peace  from  heaven's  eternity  r 

Patience,  meantime,  must  wait  on  power,  and  pride 
Hurl  back  reflected  scorn,  and  wisdom  hold 
Counsel  with  prudence ;  duty  hath  defied 
Ancient  authority,  and,  mild  yet  bold, 
The  unanswering  tyrant  on  his  throne  controuled ; 
And  conscious  Virtue  in  an  adverse  time 
May  triumph,  and  to  love  all  hatred  mould, 
Endure  reproach  and  bear  the  charge  of  crime, 
Yet  in  the  elysium  dwell  of  hallowed  thought  sublime. 


RELIGION  UNREVEALED. 


ANCIENT  romance  of  visionary  minds, 
Shadow  and  symbol  of  a  holier  creed ! 
To  thee  wild  voices,  wing'd  on  mountain  winds, 
And  countless  hecatombs,  predoomed  to  bleed, 
And  earth  and  heaven,  submissive  to  thy  reed, 
Bore  awful  witness  to  surpassing  thought ; 
And  many  a  vast  emprise  and  godlike  deed 
Rendered  its  glory  to  thy  fane  unsought, 
And  o'er  the  soul  of  man  its  thrilling  magic  wrought. 

Thy  handmaid  fable  shadowed  love  and  truth, 
As  sunset  waters  image  summer  skies  ; 
And  genius  blossomed  in  perpetual  youth, 
Wielding  at  will  prophetic  destinies  ; 
Each  gem  and  pearl,  that  in  dark  silence  lies, 
O'er  thee  its  beauty  like  a  sunbow  shed, 
And  for  the  heaven  of  thought,  that  never  dies, 
Men  toiled  and  suffered,  smiling  while  they  bled, 
Till  heroes,  sages,  bards,  rose  gods  among  the  dead. 


1  l~  RELIGION    I   MU;\EALi:i>. 

O'er  unlearned  hearts,  whence  gushed  translucent  rill- 
Of  mind,  the  floating  darkness  of  their  day 
Lived  with  the  presence  of  a  Power,  which  filU 
Each  dewbell,  leaf  and  raindrop  with  a  ray 
Of  that  divinity,  all  worlds  obey. 
Clothed  in  his  terrors,  on  his  mountain  .throne 
The  Olympian  Thunderer  sat,  upon  the  play 
Of  arrowy  lightnings — weapons  all  his  own — 
Gazing  with  that  dread  eye  which  ever  smiles  alone. 

Below,  that  wondrous  beauty  of  the  heart, 
Dian  of  Delos,  with  a  seraph  brow, 
Threw  the  deep  sanctity  pure  thoughts  impart 
O'er  the  green  vale  of  fountains,  and  the  snow 
Of  high  Olympus.     With  his  shaft  and  bow, 
Apollo  wandered  in  his  matchless  might, 
The  god  of  eloquence  and  song,  ev'n  now 
Invoked  to  crown  the  work  of  minds,  whom  night, 
In  time's  abyss,  then  brooded  o'er  with  still  delight. 

Limpid  and  laughing  waters  leapt  and  sung 
Before  the  nymphs,  and  summer  breezes  came, 
Hymns  of  the  watching  heavens  to  chaunt  among 
The  old  and  solemn  woods — wild  haunts  of  fame  ! 
The  birthbed  of  full  many  a  deathless  name 
Was  hallowed  first  by  thoughts,  whence  forms  arose 
Of  virtue,  beauty,  glory — all  that  claim 
Resolve  and  wisdom — and  each  wildwood  rose 
And  oak  wreath  gave  the  power  which  great  renown  be 
stows. 


RELIGION    UJNKEVEALED.  113 

Imagination's  Eden — Arcady  ! 
Thy  spirit  triumphs  yet  o'er  waste  and  death  ; 
Thy  hallowed  hills,  thy  pure  and  glorious  sky, 
And  thy  great  thoughts,  that  burned  in  deeds  beneath, 
And  veiled  with  awe  and  beauty  rock  and  heath. 
To  vast  renown  thy  chosen  name  have  given  ; 
And  not  less  lovely  in  thy  victor  wreath 
Beam  the  bland  smiles,  like  tender  eyes  of  even, 
Of  Oread,  Dryad,  Muse,  robed  in  the  hues  of  heaven. 

The  unsearched  depth  of  the  soul's  mysteries 
Was  to  the  men  of  elder  time  a  home, 
A  heaven,  where  dwelt  their  mightiest  deities, 
Regents  of  good  or  ill—- o'er  years  to  come 
Scattering  their  blight  or  brightness  !— Ocean's  foam 
Gave  birth  to  nature's  crown  of  loveliness, 
Hope  was  their  Iris  through  the  sky  to  roam, 
And  all  their  simple  faith  could  not  but  bless 
Hearts  quick  to  share  all  bliss,  and  soothe  unshunn'd  distress. 

Watchers  and  warders  o'er  the  changing  fate 
Of  life's  brief  season — thrones  of  spirits  blest, 
Where  envy  entered  not,  nor  rival  hate, 
The  stars  were  hope's  eternal  home  of  rest. 
The  o'erwrought  brain,  the  worn  and  wasted  breast 
Drank  in  the  nightsong  of  the  Pleiades, 
Whose  music  of  the  mind,  like  leaves  caressed 
By  dayspring  zephyrs,winged  on  melodies, 
Wafted  Elysium's  soul  on  every  holy  breeze. 


15 


114  RELIGION    UNREVEALED. 

The  headlong  torrent  with  its  noise  of  war, 
The  brook  that  gurgled  o'er  the  velvet  vale, 
The  hoar  and  giant  mountain,  seen  afar, 
Whose  dusky  summit  seamen  wont  to  hail, 
Ere  Tiber  or  Piraeus  saw  their  sail — 
The  awful  forest,  and  romantic  wood, 
Each  had  its  god,  its  shrine,  its  song  and  tale, 
Twilight  revealments  of  a  restless  mood, 
Gentle  creations  of  the  heart's  dim  solitude. 

Gymnosophist  or  gnostic  ne'er  beheld 
Wilder  or  fairer  visions  ;  every  spot 
Was  peopled  by  divinities  ;  hills  swelled 
And  valleys  glowed  with  grandeur ;  unforgot, 
Man  felt  his  Maker  everywhere,  and  nought 
Dimmed  his  deep  faith  that  they,  whose  features  won 
His  household  prayer,  would  guide  him  to  a  lot 
Blest  as  the  flower  that  blossoms  in  the  sun, 
When  toil  had  gained  its  meed,  and  virtue's  race  was  run. 

Fear  had  its  triumphs  then — when  had  it  not  r 
Cocytus,  Phlegethon,  the  gulph  of  gloom, 
Forms  shadowless  in  sunlight — shades  of  thought  f 
But  sacred  sympathies  o'er  all  did  bloom ; 
And  the  fair  urn,  unlike  the  mouldering  tomb, 
Freshened  the  memory  of  the  cherished  dead  ; 
And,  bending  o'er  it,  love  could  still  illume 
The  father's  ashes,  and  around  them  shed 
The  sunbeams  of  the  soul,  that  followed  when  he  fled. 


RELIGION   UNREVEALED.  115 

Ancient  romance !  thy  spirit  o'er  me  came 
In  early  years,  and  many  a  weary  hour 
Hath  glided  by,  like  music,  while  the  fame 
Of  genius  held  me  in  its  welcome  power. 
And  now — though  shadows  rest  upon  thy  bower^ 
And  sorrow  weeps  o'er  my  vain  vanished  dreams, — 
I  feel,  thou  hadst  a  great  and  glorious  dower, 
From  whose  vast  treasure,  time's  unnumbered  streams 
Have  washed  to  us  the  gold  that  in  our  vision  gleams. 


THE  FATHER'S  LEGACY. 


BY  Hudson's  glorious  stream,  in  death's  cold  rest, 
Thy  head  lies  low,  my  great  and  gallant  sire ! 
Pillowed  in  peace  on  earth's  eternal  breast, 
No  more  thy  bosom  pants  with  hope's  desire. 
Now,  more  than  ever,  doth  thy  *name  inspire, 
For  lingering  years  have  wept  above  thy  grave, 
And  shed  their  cold  dews  o'er  my  lonely  lyre, 
But  to  enhance  the  grief  that  could  not  save, 
The  settled  woe  that  sighs  o'er  Hudson's  midnight  wave. 

In  the  first  gush  and  glory  of  my  years, 
Ere  reason  glo    ed,  or  memory  held  her  power, 
Thy  pale  proud  brow  was  wet  with  infant  tears, 
And  wild  cries  rose  in  thy  deserted  bower ! 
Oh,  how  the  dim  remembrance  of  that  hour 
Crowds  on  my  brain  like  night's  most  shadowy  dream, 
When  winds  wail  loud  and  o'erfraught  tempests  lower, 
A  glimpse  of  glory  in  a  meteor's  gleam, 
Sunlight  in  storms — a  flower  upon  the  rushing  stream. 


THE  FATHER'S  LEGACY.        117 

The  budding  boughs,  the  limpid  light  of  spring, 
The  mirrored  beauty  of  the  brimming  rills, 
The  greenness  and  the  gentle  airs,  that  bring 
Life's  golden  hours  again,  when  heavenly  hills 
And  vales  bore  witness  to  the  soul  that  thrills 
The  heart  of  youth  ere  passion  riots  there — 
Shed  o'er  me  now  the  loveliness  which  fills, 
At  parted  seasons,  such  as  wed  despair 
When  being's  day  spring  breaks  and  all  but  life  is  fair. 

Yet  from  this  scene  of  most  surpassing  love, 
Not  unrefreshed,  I  turn  to  happier  years, 
Quick  in  their  flight,  when  through  the  highland  grove 
I  ran  to  meet  thee  with  ecstatic  tears, 
And  in  thine  arms  forgot  my  deepest  fears ! 
Oh,  then  thou  wert  to  me  what  1  am  now 
To  one  blest  boy — my  sorrow's  bliss — who  wears 
The  very  majesty  of  thy  high  brow, 
The  pride,  the  thought,  the  power,  that  in  thine  eye  did  glow. 

No  proud  sarcophagus  thy  corse  enshrines, 
No  mausoleum  mocks  thy  mouldering  dust, 
But  there  the  rose,  amid  its  mazy  vines, 
Blooms  like  thy  spirit  with  the  pure  and  just ; 
And — image  of  earth's  high  and  holy  trust — 
Deep  verdure  smiles  and  wafts  its  breath  to  heaven, 
And,  holier  far  than  antique  print  or  bust, 
Lives  in  my  heart  the  portrait  thou  hast  given, 
The  worship  of  pure  love — the  faith  of  autumn's  even. 


118         THE  FATHER'S  LEGACY. 

Thy  Legacy  was  not  the  gold  of  men, 
The  slave  of  pomp,  the  vassal  of  the  mine, 
But  an  overmastering  intellect,  that,  when 
The  world  reviled  and  trampled,  soared  divine, 
And  stood  o'erpanoplied  on  GOD'S  own  shrine ! 
This  did'st  thou  leave  me,  Father '   and  my  mind 
Hath  been  my  realm  of  glory — as  't  was  thine — 
Though  much  it  irks  me  to  have  cast  behind 
Thy  godlike  skill  to  quell  the  ills  of  human  kind. 

'Twas  thine  to  grapple  with  the  fiend  of  gain, 
'Twas  thine  to  toil  and  triumph  in  the  field — 
It  cannot  be  that  /  should  faint  in  pain, 
And  like  a  craven,  to  the  dastard  yield  ; 
On  the  starr'd  mead,  and  in  the  o'erarching  weald 
It  hath  been  mine  to  think  and  to  be  blest, 
And  oft  on  mountain  pinnacles  I've  kneeled 
To  pray  I  might  be  gathered  to  my  rest 
With  glory  on  my  brow  and  virtue  in  my  breast. 

Though  anguish  throbs  through  all  my  bosom  now, 
And  wild  tears  gush  whene'er  I  think  of  thee, 
Yet  like  blue  heaven  upon  Cordillera's  brow, 
Thy  memory  clothes  me  with  divinity, 
And  lifts  my  soul  beyond  the  things  that  be, 
The  strife  of  traffic,  falsehood's  common  fear, 
Friendship  betrayed,  unguerdoned  vassalry, 
And  every  ill,  that  reigns  and  riots  here, 
In  this  dark  world  so  far  from  thine  immortal  sphere. 


THE  FATHER'S  LEG  AC  if. 

My  earliest  smiles  were  thine — my  earliest  thoughts, 
Like  rosy  light  in  morn's  translucent  sky, 
First  from  thine  eye,  my  spirit's  sun,  were  caught; 
And  as  it  gleams  on  days  that  vanish  by, 
It  turns  to  thee,  my  fountain  shrined  on  high  ! 
— My  Sister !  is  she  with  thee  ?  where  thou  art 
Thy  children  fain  would  be  ! — on  starbeams  fly, 
Spirits  of  Love !  and  in  my  raptured  heart 
Make  Heaven's  own  music  till  my  soul  in  transport  part. 

And  teach  me  with  an  awed  delight  to  tread 
The  darksome  vale  that  all  must  tread  alone, 
And  gift  me  with  the  wisdom  of  the  dead, 
Justly  to  do,  yet  all  unjustly  done, 
Freely  to  pardon  ! — Till  the  crown  is  won, 
Be  with  me  in  the  errings  of  my  lot, 
The  many  frailties  of  thine  only  son, 
And  when  brief  records  say  that  he  is  not, 
Hail  his  wronged  spirit  home  where  sorrow  is  forgot ! 


•M 
jr 


THE  LAST  SONG  TO  CLARA. 


Let  no  mail  seek 

Henceforth  to  be  foretold  what  shall  befall 
Him  or  hia  children. — MILTON. 

"  WREATHE  thou  the  laurel  with  the  bay, 
And  let  the  Poet's  triumph  be 
The  prelude  of  a  lovelier  day, 
The  seal  of  immortality  ! 
Crown  thou  the  brow  of  thought  divine 
With  glory  born  of  mind  below, 
And  fill  with  gifts  the  holy  shrine 
Where  hopeless  spirits  kneel  and  glow- 
Not  with  the  light  of  joy  to  come, 
But  in  the  lurid  splendour  cast 
O'er  the  wild  story  of  their  doom 
From  the  soul's  morning  beauty  past ! 
So  to  lorn  love  thou  wilt  fulfil 
The  fate  denied  in  mortal  days, 
And  bear  affection's  harplike  thrill 
Through  all  hearts  in  thy  living  lays  !" 


TO  CLARA. 

Thus,  as  beside  the  tomb  of  love, 
The  monument  of  Heloise, 
When  seraphs  from  air  thrones  above 
Leaned  and  sighed  music  on  the  breeze, 
I  stood  in  that  lone  hour  of  thought, 
Which  wafts  time's  shrouded  memories  on, 
And  pours  upon  the  waste  of  nought- 
The  loveliness  of  rapture  flown, 
I  drank  from  spring's  all  spirit  air 
The  accents  of  a  voice  unheard, 
.And  clasped  one  bliss  in  life's  despair, 
One  thought  of  joy  that  in  me  stirred. 

"  Thou  of  the  bigot's  darkened  time !" 
(I  murmured  out  a  faint  reply,) 
"  Wert  doomed  to  bear  the  brand  of  crime 
In  the  heart's  home  of  ecstacy  ; 
Martyr  and  mission'd  spirit,  sent 
From  throbbing  depths  of  holiest  skies, 
To  bless  earth's  love  in  banishment, 
And  gladden  loneliest  destinies. 
Come  from  the  fountain  home  of  heaven, 
Come  from  the  mountainhaunts  of  youth, 
And  o'er  me  shed  the  rapture  given 
To  first  love  in  the  years  of  truth ! 
Give  to  the  glance  of  memory's  eye 
The  flight  of  hope  o'er  future  good, 
And  to  thy  temple  in  the  sky 
Summon  dark  thoughts  from  wave  and  wood  ! 
I  oft  have  bled  in  bitter  strife, 
I  oft  have  dwelt  in  lady's  bower, 
16 


\22  TO  CLARA. 

But  lor  this  fated  gift,  earth's  life, 

'Tis  time's  worst  mock  and  hate's  worst  dower  ; 

Nought  in  its  heart  but  care  and  sorrow, 

In  anguish  born,  in  darkness  ending, 

Haunting  the  footprints  of  to-morrow, 

For  hope  toward  joy  in  shadows  tending  ! 

The  world  can  talk,  but  I  must  feel, 

And  men  can  counsel  while  I  sigh, 

Wealth  crowns  the  spirit  that  can  kneel, 

But  genius  heralds  destiny. 

They  murmur  error  past — but  how  ? 

I  was  not  born  to  bend  and  bow, 

God  made  me  free  and  proud  and  just, 

Man,  this  dark  thing  of  fire  and  dust — 

Thought  comes  not  from  the  mould  of  earth, 

Nor  feeling  from  the  merchant's  mart, 

And  Glory,  wed  to  Mind,  has  birth 

Alone  in  griefs  mausoleum  heart — 

Would' st  thou  know  more  ?  go  ask  the  fiend 

Why  he  veiled  not  his  seraph  head, 

Why  unto  man  he  scorned  to  bend 

The  brow  that  heaven's  own  glory  shed  ! 

From  thy  shrined  tomb  in  Paraclete 

Breathe  yet  again  thy  spirit  o'er  me, 

And  I  may  better  learn  to  meet 

The  storms  and  strife  that  gloom  before  me  ! 

Thy  cloistered  wisdom,  vesper  prayers, 

And  matin  hymns  of  hallowed  love, 

Shed  o'er  these  soft  translucent  airs. 

And  fill  me  with  the  bliss  above  ! 

Tell  me  once  more  thy  pillow  now 


TO  CLARA. 

Is  Abelard's  long  widowed  bosom, 

And  smiles  may  light  my  clouded  brow, 

And  hope  breathe  life  o'er  youth's  dead  blossom !" 

Doomed  'mid  a  selfish  herd  to  tread. 

To  loathe  yet  leave  not  life's  lone  way, 

To  breathe  despair  among  the  dead, 

And  seek  the  warmth,  yet  curse  the  day — 

To  stand  on  midnight  hills,  and  grasp 

At  glory's  shapes,  and  find  them  madness — 

This,  Clara,  since  our  last  wild  clasp, 

Hath  been  my  fate  in  silent  sadness. 

And  as  the  Meccan  pilgrim  wends 

Alone  along  the  waste  of  death, 

And  cheers  him,  when  the  sand  storm  ends, 

By  the  blest  hope  of  Houri  wreath, 

So  I  through  living  solitude 

Thine  image  bear  with  lonely  joy, 

And,  shadowed  by  the  ancient  wood, 

Paint  thy  bright  features  on  the  sky. 

Then  should  I  not  invoke  the  past 

To  counsel  and  console  my  doom, 

And  deem  I  meet  thee  on  the  waste 

Where  towers  sublime  love's  lonely  tomb  ? 

Shall  not  my  spirit  hover  o'er 

Thy  slumbering  brow  and  bless  thee  there  ? 

And  on  thy  children's  bosoms  pour 

The  incense  of  a  holy  prayer  ? 

Sweet  Clara  !  let  me  breathe  my  heart 

Upon  those  amulets  of  bliss, 

And,  through  their  lips,  to  thee  impart 


124  TO  CLARA. 

The  rapture  of  a  farewell  kiss  ! 

I  seek  not  wisdom  from  the  crowd 

Who  laugh  iu  woe  to  worship  pride  ; 

With  the  world's  men  I  can  be  proud, 

And  king  with  king  stand  side  by  sida. 

I  gaze  upon  the  stars  of  God, 

And  deem  my  soul  hath  lost  its  sphere, 

For  some  strange  crime  doomed  to  this  sod, 

Buried  in  doubt  and  darkness  here  ; 

I  sink  my  soul  within  the  soul 

That  lights  with  heaven's  revealings  earth, 

And  in  the  dust  before  The  Whole 

Drop  prostrate  into  deathless  birth  ! 

But,  Clara !  in  the  dawn  of  mind, 

In  the  young  glow,  the  gush  of  heart, 

Like  music  linked  to  autumn  wind, 

Our  spirits  wed — and  can  we  part ! 

Can  time's  mildew  or  fading  flight 

Ruin  the  home  of  hope  we  built, 

And,  as  we  roam  through  storm  and  night, 

Our  meeting  bear  the  curse  of  guilt  ? 

Can  we  forget  how  oft  we  met, 

How  deeply  loved,  how  wildly  mourned, 

When  tearless  grief  and  vain  regret 

Before  love's  shrine  their  offerings  burned  ? 

Can  we  forget  the  sacred  charm, 

The  midnight  hush  of  still  commune, 

While  the  heart  thrilled  each  folded  arm, 

And  hope  soared  up  beside  the  moon  ? 

Can  we  forget  the  starlight  sail 


TO  CLARA.  125 

On  Housatonic's  azure  breast? 

Can  memory,  mind,  and  love,  all  fail 

To  tell  us  that  we  have  been  blest  f 

There's  not  a  grove  in  Ripton's  vale, 

There's  not  a  flower  beside  the  river, 

That  breathes  not  out  Love's  mournful  tale, 

When  pale  leaves  in  the  cold  winds  quiver — 

And  shall  we  blot  from  life  the  hour 

That  sealed  us  for  undying  fate, 

And  o'er  the  bloom  of  young  love's  bower 

Cast  the  world's  scorn  and  bitter  hate  ? 

I  hear  a  voice  from  oceans  past, 

The  heart's  knell  o'er  returnless  years  ; 

I  stand  upon  life's  shoreless  waste, 

The  haunt  and  home  of  buried  fears  ; 

And,  as  pale  shades  of  hope  flit  by, 

And  love  in  tears  slow  follows  on, 

Missioned  to  one  eternity, 

That  bosoms  future,  present,  gone, 

I  cast  my  spirit  o'er  thy  name, 

And  deem  me  blest  by  love's  lone  tomb, 

For  thou  to  me  art  hope  and  fame — 

The  Pleiad  of  the  world's  cold  gloom  ! 


TO    MY    HUSBAND. 


1  cannot  but  embrace  the  opportunity  to  present,  in  this  work,  the  simple 
offering  of  a  heart  untainted  by  selfishness  and  unchang-ed  by  adversity 
when  evil  fortune  darkened  and  afflictions  troubled  the  fountain  of  my  soul. 
The  following-  verses,  heretofore  published,  were  addressed  by  MRS.  JANE 
FAIBFIELD  to  the  author,  and  may  illustrate  to  certain  men  of  malevolence 
the  depth  and  purity  of  a  love  which  they  can  neither  appreciate  nor  acquire. 

Blest  be  the  hour  that  called  thee  mine, 

Hallowed  in  green  bright  memory  ! 
When  first  we  met,  my  heart  was  thine — 

How  could  I  choose  but  worship  thee  ? 

Too  well  I  felt  that  thou  hadst  loved 

Some  gentle  heart  to  sorrow  given, 
And  well  I  knew  thou  hadst  bestowed 

Deep  feelings  that  were  rent  and  riven. 

And,  in  deep  truth,  I  loved  thee  more 
For  having  loved  as  years  had  gone, 

For,  oh,  my  spirit  could  adore 

The  heart  that  throbbed  so  long  for  one. 


TO  MY  HUSBAND.  127 

£ 

Dear  destined  maiden  !  wedded  now 

To  utter  misery  and  woe  ! 
I  love  her — for  she  kept  her  vow — 

Though  tears  from  her  swoln  eyelids  flow. 

Genius  must  suffer  scorn  and  hate 

And  insult  from  the  reptile  few, 
And  I  will  glory  that  my  fate 

Is  blent  and  blessed  with  one  so  true. 

I  love  thee  that  thou  art  not  loved 

By  those  whose  praise  is  infamy  ; 
It  is  enough  that  thou  hast  proved 

Thy  heart  doth  dwell  in  purity. 

I've  heard  thee  branded  with  a  lie, 

And  witnessed  many  an  insult  given 
By  envious  slanderers,  who  defy 

Their  God,  e'en  on  His  throne  in  Heaven  ! 

For  this,  I  love  thee,  wedded  one  ! 

The  scorn  of  vice  is  virtue's  glory  ; 
Grieve  not  o'er  years  of  sorrow  gone — 

Thy  name  shall  live  in  glorious  story. 

Would  I  could  shield  thee,  chosen  one  ! 

By  cold  and  cruel  wrongs  oppressed — 
I'd  wander  through  the  world  alone, 

And  find  my  heaven  on  thy  breast, 


128  TO  MY  HUSBA.M*. 

Let  me  partake  and  soothe  thy  grief, 
And  bear  with  thee  an  injured  name. 

For  wealth  is  but  a  gilded  leaf, 

And  venal  praise  crowns  not  true  fame. 

Can  smiles  light  up  thy  face  no  more .? 
Must  sorrow  bear  thee  to  the  tomb  f 
'    Then  while  I  breathe  on  earth's  cold  shore. 
Happy  I'll  live  and  share  thy  gloom. 

Thy  pallid  brow,  where  genius  glows, 
Thy  stainless  heart  that  fears  not  guile, 

Each,  dearer  than  the  first  spring  rose, 

Glance  o'er  my  heart  like  heaven's  sweet  smile. 

Thou  shalt  not  vainly  suffer  hate 

From  those  who  scoffed  and  spurned  thy  name. 
Heaven,  with  whom  dwells  atoning  fate, 

Shall  pour  its  blessing  o'er  thy  fame. 

Could  I  upbraid  thee,  dearest  one ! 

'Twould  be  for  trusting  those  who  hate  thee ; 
Yet  gaze  not  thus  on  evil  done 

For  perfect  bliss  on  earth  would  sate  thee. 

False  men,  who  haunt  thee  and  pursue, 
With  hate,  thy  lone  and  sinless  way, 

Cannot— oh,  joy  !  cannot  subdue 

The  soul  whose  blossoms  round  thee  play. 


TO  MY  HUSBAND.  129 

I've  heard  thy  spirit's  quivering  sigh, 

And  seen  thy  heart  in  anguish  torn, 
When  friends  were  far  and  foes  were  nigh, 

And  thou  wert  left  alone  forlorn. 

Alone  ?  oh,  no  ! — not  so !  not  so  ! 

For  one  to  love  and  bless  was  near  thee, 
Who  .pillowed  oft  thy  head  in  woe, 

And  smiled  in  sadness  oft  to  cheer  thee. 

Oft  will  we  blend  our  prayers,  my  love ! 

And  heart  in  heart  through  being  roam, 
They  reck  not  what  the  world  may  prove, 

Who  build  and  share  each  other's  home. 

Oh  !  let  me  suffer  with  the  just, 

Whose  dowry  here  is  nought  but  sorrow ; 

Heaven's  rainbow  gleams  o'er  earth's  cold  dust, 
And  lights  the  storms  of  life's  to-morrow. 

My  heart  hath  felt  no  solitude 

When  far  from  all  the  world  save  thee, 

Love,  where  no  stranger  steps  intrude, 
Soars  to  heaven's  purest  ecstacy. 

Time  cannot  bring  a  change  to  blight 
The  love  I  long  have  borne  for  thee — 

While  back  I  gaze,,  with  dear  delight, 
Or  forward  on  the  days  to  be  ! — 


17 


BIRTHDAY  MEDITATIONS. 


So  when  Detraction  and  a  Cynic's  tongTie 

Have  sunk  desert  unto  the  depth  of  wrong, 

By  that  the  eye  of  skill  true  worth  may  see 

To  brare  the  stars,  though  low  his  passage  be. — WILLIAM  BROWNE. 


O'er  him,  to  whom  the  heartless  world  appears 
One  vast  aceldama  of  guilt  and  woe, 
A  desert  watered  by  the  bosom's  tears, 
That  long  have  flowed  and  must  forever  flow, 
Life's  earlier  hours  with  roselight  radiance  burn, 
Kindling  deep  incense  in  oblivion's  urn. 

Blest  is  each  scene  of  simple,  trusting  youth, 
Ere  the  heart  breathes  earth's  thick  and  tainted  air, 
When  the  soul  bowed  and  worshipped  holy  truth, 
And  bade  its  voice  her  oracles  declare ; 
Backward  he  gates  on  life's  morn,  and  sighs, 
And  pours  his  spirit  through  his  swimming  e^es. 


BIRTHDAY  MEDITATIONS.  131 

A  sunbeam  hovering  on  its  golden  wing, 
Mission' d  from  heaven  to  light  this  lowliest  sphere, 
The  heart  breathes  music  in  its  blossoming, 
And  throws  its  beauty  o'er  each  infant  year ; 
But,  like  a  star  in  mist  and  moorlands  lost, 
It  mourns,  full  soon,  o'er  all  it  loved  the  most. 

Quick  o'er  the  gloomier  realms  of  life  in  mirth 
Bounding,  the  spirit  drank  the  rainbow  light 
Of  heaven,  and  scattered  o'er  the  desert  earth 
Fair  thoughts  that  gush'd  in  fountains  ever  bright; 
Or  brightness,  shadowed  for  a  moment,  wore 
A  deeper  beauty  than  it  knew  before. 

Through  the  vast  glorious  depths  of  summer's  heaven 
Rush  the  glad  musings  of  the  high-soul'd  boy ; 
Wing'd  spirits,  harping  'mid  the  clouds  of  even, 
Float  round  his  path  to  crown  his  simple  joy ; 
And  fancy  fables  what  the  heart  desires, 
And  songs  of  rapture  gush  from  golden  lyres. 

Then  Nature  triumphs  :  forest,  field  and  grove, 
Mountain  and  vale  and  ocean's  pebbled  shore, 
All  breathe  out  blessedness  and  hope  and  love, 
Like  Delphi  and  Dodona's  woods  of  yore ; 
And  magic  sounds  from  the  stirred  foliage  flow, 
And  the  wild  billows,  murmuring  as  they  glow. 


132  BIRTHDAY  MEDITATIONS. 

Love,  truth  and  purity  impart  their  sweet 

And  holy  light  to  all  they  look  upon  ; 

And  childhood  blesses  all  its  wanderings  meet, 

Leaving  a  track  of  rays  when  years  have  gone  ; 

That  when  the  bosom  bleeds  and  thought  grows  cold. 

We  may  look  back  and  feel  e'en  as  we  felt  of  old. 

Grief  touches  but  taints  not  the  budding  heart ; 
Quick  tears  start  only  from  the  flashing  eye  ; 
Soon  from  young  spirits  mournful  thoughts  depart 
Like  melting  vapours  from  the  morning  sky  ; 
The  radiant  sunlight  of  the  pure  mind  throws 
A  glorious  beauty  o'er  our  darkest  woes. 

'T  is  the  wide  pestilence  of  sin,  that  makes 
This  world  the  desert  and  the  doom  it  is  ; — 
Dark  wanders  midnight  Fraud — and  Baseness  slakes 
Its  goul  thirst  in  the  nectar  of  our  bliss  ; — 
Affection  shrinks— cold  interest  frowns  on  truth, 
And  love  turns  weeping  to  the  bowers  of  youth. 

There  memory  lingers  o'er  the  hoarded  words 

Of  sages  old,  the  pleiades  of  earth  ; 

And  thoughts,  that  pierce  like  skill'd  and  mirror'd  swords. 

From  the  heart's  sepulchre  in  clouds  come  forth ; 

Hoar  wisdom  and  romance  beneath  the  spell 

Of  music  wed,  and  virtue  cries  "  't  is  well." 


BIRTHDAY  MEDITATIONS.  133 

But  soon  from  phantom  dreams  of  happier  days 
We  turn  like  pilgrims  from  the  desert's  fountain ; 
Hope  faintly  lights  our  lone  and  wandering  ways 
O'er  the  steep  rocks  and  thorns  of  grief's  bleak  mountain; 
Prudence  and  knowledge,  gods  of  guilt  and  gain, 
Fierce  tyrants,  rise  and  revel  in  our  pain. 

Alas !  a  child,  I  sighed  to  be  a  man  ; — 

I  little  knew  the  meaning  of  my  prayer  ; — 

I  recked  not  as  in  youth's  greenwood  paths  I  ran, 

How  soon  the  clouds  of  ill  would  darken  there ! — 

Sigh  not  for  years — to  tell  thee  life  is  woe — 

Change,  anguish,  death — all  thou  canst  feel  below  ! 


SKETCHES  IN  PROSE. 


Probably,  the  subsequent  articles  will  prove  as  entertaining"  as  any  poems 
could  be ;  and  they  will  serve  a  double  purpose  in  this  volume — though  other 
wise  out  of  place — for  the  prose  style  of  a  poet  will  thereby  be  exemplified, 
and  the  intended  number  of  pages,  which  a  rapid  edition  and  ill-health  have 
prevented  my  accomplishing-  in  poetry,  will  be  completed  in  the  description 
of  poets. 

THE  YOUNG  POETS  OF  BRITAIN. 

SHELLEY,  the  eldest  son  of  a  British  baronet,  began  his 
fatal  career  by  espousing  the  most  dreadful  doctrines  in  mo 
rals,  politics,  and  religion.  While  .yet  a  youthful  member 
of  the  university,  with  a  daring  temerity  not  more  reprehen 
sible  for  its  impiety  than  its  folly,  he  compiled  from  the  works 
of  the  French  and  German  atheists,  and  printed  and  pub 
lished  a  pamphlet,  every  line  of  which  was  equally  odious 
to  the  rational  unbeliever  and  the  true-hearted  Christian. 
Though  yet  in  his  boyhood,  when  Shelley  was  summoned 
before  the  magnates  of  his  college  to  answer  to  the  general 
accusation,  far  from  seeking  escape  under  a  denial  of  the 
act,  or  penitence  for  its  accomplishment,  he  openly  defied 
the  gray-haired  theologians,  and  attempted  to  vindicate  the 
creed  of  Voltaire.  The  immediate  consequence  of  his  fool- 
hardiness  may  be  easily  imagined ;  he  was  expelled  the  uni- 


Ub  SKETCHES  li\   1'KOSE. 

versity,  shunned  by  former  friends,  deserted  by  his  father, 
and  driven  forth  upon  the  world,  without  wisdom  to  direct 
or  funds  to  support  him.  '  The  world  was  not  his  friend 
nor  the  world's  law ;'  his  unreserved  opinions  were  directly 
opposed  to  the  established  religious  and  political  canons  of 
his  native  land,  and,  in  the  recklessness  of  unrelieved  dis 
tress,  he  was  fain  to  adopt  the  society  and  profligate  career 
of  associates,  who  were  unrestrained  in  their  excesses  by 
any  present  or  future  fear.  Thus  the  natural  but  impolitic 
indignation  of  his  father  only  ratified  the  evil  which  he  in 
tended  to  correct,  and  haughty  impenitence  sprung  up  be 
neath  the  burden  of  his  misery. 

One  would  suppose  that  mankind,  however  they  scorn 
precept,  might  be  instructed  by  example ;  but  age  follows 
age,  and  generation  after  generation  disappears,  and  the 
same  follies  are  still  predominant.  Punishment,  to  be  salu 
tary,  should  be  tempered  by  mercy,  especially  when  inflicted 
by  a  paternal  hand  ;  for  ten  thousand  instances  illustrate  the 
unremembered  truth,  that  the  fiery  spirit  of  youth  can  never 
be  redeemed  from^  the  peril  of  disobedience  by  the  stern 
commands  or  even  the  curses  of  a  father.  Forgetful  of 
this,  the  offended  baronet  offered  his  outcast  son  no  refuge 
from  his  miseries,  sought  no  knowledge  of  his  pursuits,  and 
appeared  regardless  of  the  fate  that  might  attend  him. 
From  the  deep  humiliation  of  a  spirit,  waiting  to  be  again 
received  into  favour,  to  the  dark  haughtiness  of  a  banished 
heart,  there  is  a  quick  and  fearful  transition.  Day  after 
day  followed  each  other  not  more  regularly  than  Shelley  lis 
tened  for  the  knock  of  the  postman ;  but  no  tidings  came. 
He  inquired ;  his  father  had  been  in  London,  but  had  gone 
again.  He  wrote,  but  no  answer  followed.  His  humble 


SKETCHES  IN  PROSE.  137 

spirit  was  exasperated;  he  earned  money  by  advocating 
atheism  and  opposing  government  in  the  radical  prints ;  he 
felt  himself  abandoned,  and  in  turn  he  abandoned  all  who 
had  ceased  to  care  for  him.  In  a  twelvemonth,  he  ran 
away  from  London  with  a  boarding-school  beauty,  and 
spent  many  months  in  Scotland  with  as  much  pleasure  as 
un wedded  lovers,  who  live  in  defiance  of  the  laws  of  God, 
can  expect  to  receive  from  his  hand. 

He  had  now  put  the  seal  upon  his  father's  ban ;  but  he 
little  cared  what  he  or  the  world  thought,  so  long  as  he  was 
blessed  by  the  smiles  of  his  beloved.  These  were  doomed 
to  vanish  soon.  During  his  temporary  absence,  the  partner 
of  his  guilt,  actuated  by  the  horror  of  her  situation,  threw 
herself  into  a  deep  river,  and  was  brought  out  a  corpse.  On 
such  a  mind  as  Shelley's,  this  awful  consummation  was  cal 
culated  to  produce  the  most  disastrous  effects.  Trouble  and 
affliction,  however  accumulated,  never  melted  his  nature  nor 
rendered  it  pliable  to  the  touches  of  reason  and  loving-kind 
ness.  He  gazed  upon  each  successive  stroke  of  the  thun 
derbolt,  upon  each  molehill  added  to  the  mountain  of  his 
curses,  as  a  newer  and  more  exciting  impulse  to  revenge ; 
and  the  most  charitable  construction  we  can  extend  to  his 
writings  is  the  belief  that  his  manifold  disasters,  vicissitudes 
and  trials  thoroughly  deranged  his  mind,  led  him  to 
look  upon  the  world  as  his  sworn  enemy,  and,  like  Rousseau, 
to  desire  to  grapple  with  the  Being  whose  existence  he  de 
nied,  but  whose  omnipotence  he  felt.  He  plunged  into  the 
darkness  of  his  creed ;  he  revelled  in  unintelligible  myste 
ries  ;  he  recited  his  woes  in  most  touching  strains ;  and  the 
bitterness  of  his  spirit  pervaded  every  stanza  of  his  poetry. 
His  mind  was  restless,  and  sought  relief  from  any  thing  that 

18 


138  >KI-:TCHKS 


could  engage  its  powers;  his  fine  energies  were,  thereibiT. 
wasted  in  bewildered  gropings  through  the  darkness  of  fu 
ture  destiny,  and  moaning  discontent  over  everything  on 
earth.  He  rushed  from  England  to  Italy,  and  from  Italy  to 
England,  like  an  unblest  spirit.  Neither  the  charms  of  By 
ron's  friendship,  nor  the  kind-heartedness  of  Leigh  Hunt, 
could  compose  his  troubled  mind,  or  relieve  his  bursting 
heart.  Like  Savage,  he  wandered  beyond  the  knowledge 
of  his  friends,  and  more  than  once  the  heir  of  a  baronetcy 
and  £3000  a  year,  was  doomed  to  make  the  streets  of  Lon 
don  his  only  shelter,  while  cold  and  hungry,  weary  and 
alone. 

In  the  midst  of  these  distresses  his  "  Queen  Mab"  ap 
peared  ;  and  the  withering  severity  of  all  orthodox  reviewers 
attended  his  poem  with  the  same  immitigable  reiteration  as 
persecution  pursued  the  ill-fated  but  gifted  author.  The 
metaphysical  mysteriousness,  the  sceptical  sentiments,  the 
vague  terrors  and  churchyard  horrors  of  that  poem  were 
all  obvious  to  the  dimmest  perception,  while  its  hidden 
beauty,  its  delicate  refinement  of  thought  and  imagery,  and 
its  admirable  idiomatic  style  were  as  little  perceptible  to 
superficial  readers,  as  the  clear  water  of  the  river  is  to  the 
clown  who  hobbles  over  the  ice.  Shelley  was  disgusted  with 
society  in  all  its  forms  ;  he  was  dissatisfied  with  the  existence 
of  everything  natural,  moral,  and  political  ;  he  confounded 
the  reformer  with  the  poet,  and,  in  the  latter  capacity, 
imagined  an  Arcadian  Utopia,  which,  in  the  former,  he 
proposed  to  people  with  every  grace  and  charity.  His 
deviations  from  the  canons  of  criticism  and  the  social  laws 
were  soon  deterred  by  the  giants  who  guarded  them  ;  and 
the  friendless  poet  was  thrown  back  upon  himself  with  a 
mighty  arm  which  might  have  crushed  him  but  dared  not. 


SKETCHES  IN  PROSE.  139 

After  almost  incredible  sufferings  from  poverty  and  per 
secution,  Shelley  was  partially  reconciled  to  his  father ;  and 
about  the  same  time,  he  allied  himself  to  the  beautiful, 
accomplished,  and  gifted  daughter  of  William  Godwin  and 
Mary  Wolstonecraft.  Educated  in  the  doctrines  of  her 
intellectual  but  erring  mother,  and,  with  much  of  the  mind, 
inheriting  all  the  strong  prejudices  of  her  father,  Miss 
Godwin  affected  to  despise  the  chains  of  matrimony,  and  to 
rise  above  the  common  vassalage  of  her  sex ;  but,  though 
she  was  the  same  faithful  and  devoted  wife  before  as  after 
the  consummation  of  marriage,  yet,  she  did  not  pause  to 
think  what  moral  ruin  the  universal  adoption  of  her  creed 
and  practice  would  spread  over  the  world.  It  is  most 
lamentable  that  the  deism  of  Godwin  and  the  libertinism  of 
Wolstonecraft  should  have  been  associated,  in  such  a  mind 
as  Miss  Godwin's,  with  the  self-accredited  irresponsible 
atheism  of  Shelley.  Had  her  deep  affections  united  them 
selves  lawfully  to  a  pious  and  kindred  heart,  they  might 
have  won  her  to  the  cross  she  trampled  on  and  the  God 
whose  being  she  denied ;  but,  fascinated  by  the  intellectual 
qualities  of  Shelley,  and  content  to  follow  the  example  of 
her  mother,  she  debased  the  spirit  that  might  have  soared  to 
heaven,  and -lost  the  friendship  of  all  who  respected  the 
institutions  of  the  society  they  adorned. 

Upon  a  large  annuity  allowed  him  by  his  father,  Shelley, 
with  Miss  Godwin,  removed  into  the  country ;  and  many 
months  passed  away  more  happily  than  the  misguided  poet 
had  hitherto  experienced. 

There  he  produced  many  poems,  and,  among  others,  that 
wonderful  creation  of  genius,  "AJastor,  or  The  Spirit  of 
Solitude." 

1 


140  SKKTrilKS    l\    1'KOSK. 

In  this  strange  emanation  of  his  power,  the  poet  ha> 
wandered  through  those  invisible  regions,  and  drank  at 
those  fountains  of  early  light,  where  his  spirit  always  revels 
in  ecstacy.  Throughout  the  poem  he  has  scattered  much 
beautiful  description,  but  we  often  turn  away  in  wonder  at 
the  purpose  of  its  introduction.  The  splendour  of  his  ima 
gination  gleams  upon  a  mass  of  broken  gems — gorgeous, 
but  valueless,  and  the  gloom  of  his  doubting  heart  hangs 
over  his  highest  thought,  like  the  smoke  of  the  battle  over 
the  triumph  of  death.  He  yearns  after  something  beyond 
attainment,  and,  like  all  who  pursue  the  dictates  of  abstruse 
argument  rather  than  the  impulse  of  an  incorruptible  heart, 
he  is  invariably  unhappy,  while  he  exerts  all  the  power  of 
his  mind  to  make  his  reader  so.  Leigh  Hunt  esteems  this 
poem  as  one  of  the  finest  productions  of  the  age.  We  do 
not  object  to  the  language,  for  that  is  pure  old  English,  but 
to  the  dark  thoughts  and  heathen  sentiments  of  "  Alastor," 
and  these  will  forever  deter  the  Christian  from  its  perusal. 

"The  Cenci,"  a  tragedy  produced  about  this  period, 
though  it  has  met  with  even  a  severer  fate  than  Miss  Baillie's 
"  De  Montfort,"  or  Mrs  Hemans'  "  Vespers  of  Palermo," 
or  Coleridge's  "  Remorse,"  or  Lamb's  "  Woodville,"  is 
pronounced  by  all  who  have  read  it,  one  of  the  most  power 
ful  plays  which  have  adorned  English  literature.  The 
characters  are  beautifully  delineated,  the  plot  artfully  ma 
naged,  and  the  denouement  judiciously  accomplished.  Had 
Shelley  always  written  like  this,  or  never  written  any  thing 
more,  "The  Cenci"  might  have  held  that  exalted  rank 
upon  the  stage  and  in  the  closet,  from  which  it  is  now 
excluded  by  the  name  of  the  author. 

Unaccustomed  to  economy,  and,  like  all  men  of  crenius, 


IN  PROSE.  141 


profuse  in  his  liberality,  Shelley  was  soon  reduced  to  per 
plexing  straits  and  obliged  to  leave  England  to  recruit  his 
finances  in  Italy.  Here  he  became  the  familiar  friend  of 
Byron;  and  his  wounded  spirit  was  frequently  consoled  by 
the  honest  praises  of  the  exile.  Byron  admired  his  genius 
but  deprecated  his  sentiments  ;  for  amid  all  his  errors,  his 
master-genius  never  wandered  from  a  secret  credence,  or 
perhaps  apprehension,  of  the  truth  revealed.  His  mind  was 
too  exalted  not  to  seek  an  Almighty  mind,  and  we  have 
abundant  reason  to  believe,  that,  in  his  latter  years,  he  often 
lamented  the  skepticism  of  his  youth.  During  the  remainder 
of  his  brief  and  tumultuous  life,  Shelley  reposed  in  quiet  ; 
but  in  the  propagation  of  radicalism  and  infidelity,  his  mind 
was  more  active  than  ever.  "  The  Revolt  of  Islam,"  if  it 
could  be  comprehended  with  less  study  than  the  Principia 
of  Newton,  would  do  great  injury  to  young  minds  ;  but 
fortunately  the  very  title  is  incomprehensible  to  ordinary 
readers,  and  the  whole  production  is  a  mass  of  splendid 
absurdity.  The  most  beautiful  language  is  employed 
without  purpose,  and  the  finest  images  brought  forth  to 
array  his  visions  of  a  political  millennium. 

The  last  production  of  Shelley  was  his  elegy  on  the  death 
of  Keats.  It  is  equally  remarkable  for  its  singular  poetic 
beauty  and  its  severe  crimination  of  Croker,  the  savage 
reviewer  of  Keats.  Mournfully  he  laments  his  departed 
friend,  without  apprehending  that  his  words  would  soon  be 
applicable  to  himself.  Even  while  he  poured  out  his  la 
mentations,  the  doom  had  gone  forth  against  him  —  and  it 
was  speedily  fulfilled. 

When  he  parted  from  Mrs.  Shelley  (such,  at  his  request, 
she  had  become,)  to  go  upon  a  sailing'  excursion  with  Cap- 


142  >KKTCHi:s  IN  PROSE. 

tain  Williams,  he  little  thought  that  a  strict  account  of  his 
thoughts  and  deeds  would  be  required  of  him  before  they 
met  again.  The  day  was  beautiful  and  the  sky  serene,  but 
a  gust  of  wind  suddenly  arose,  the  boat  upset  and  the  friends 
were  drowned.  After  a  long  immersion,  the  body  of  Shelley 
was  'found  and  buried  by  Byron ;  and  his  wife  with  two 
children  returned  to  London.  "  With  the  talents  of  an  angel 
a  man  may  be  a  fool :"  we  wish  Mrs  Shelley  would  remem 
ber  that  a  woman  may  be  the  same,  and  present  the  world 
with  no  more  such  works  as,  "  Valperga,"  and  "  The  Last 
Man."  She  possesses  a  noble  mind  and  writes  with  almost 
unequalled  power,  but  she,  as  well  as  Lady  Morgan,  must 
have  made  the  discovery  that  the  wanton  sacrifice  of  all  the 
heart  (the  household  female  heart,  especially)  holds  invaluable 
and  sacred,  tends  but  little  to  recommend  her  writings  to 
millions  whose  only  happiness  lies  beyond  this  world. 

In  a  brief  but  affecting  biography  prefixed  to  his  poems, 
Lord  Craig  has  given  the  only  information  of  which  we  are 
possessed  relative  to  Michael  Bruce ;  he  was  the  son  of  an 
humble  and  pious  Scottish  cottager,  who  restricted  his  own 
limited  expenditures  to  give  him  a  free  education,  and  was 
rewarded  by  the  high  expectations  which  his  youth  excited. 
But  these  were  all  rendered  vain  by  that  deadly  foe  to 
human  life,  consumption.  In  his  twenty-first  year,  tin- 
scholar  and  poet  was  hurried  away  from  all  his  pictured 
scenes  of  happiness 'and  fame,  and  his  broken  hearted  mother 
left  to  bewail  her  irretrievable  loss.  Most  of  his  poetry  was 
composed  while  he  suffered  under  the  influence  of  disease, 
and  while  he  moved,  like  a  shadow,  among  the  woods,  and 
held  eloquent  coimhunion  with  nature,  or,  with  a  flushed 
cheek,  talked  of  earthly  bliss  to  his  love,  who  well  knew 


SKETCHES  IN  PROSE.  143 

that  he  was  journeying  to  a  happier  world.     It  is  soft,  and 
kind,  and  gentle,  as  his  own  heart — gentle  as  the  lapse  of 
the  summer   rivulet — bright  as  the  moonbeam  that  shone 
upon  his  wanderings — and  melancholy  as  the  poor  girl  who 
mournfully  listened  to  his  tale  of  hope.     He  never  speaks 
of  fame,  but  his  whole  spirit  glows  with  that  fire  which  lights 
the  altar  of  immortality.     With  him   life  had  no  cares,  no 
agitations,  no  remorse ;  and  he  avoided  all  anxious  thoughts, 
by  sending  forth  his  spirit  to  admire  the  works  of  God,  and 
resigning  himself  wholly  to  his  will.    The  genius  of  Michael 
Bruce  and  that  of  the   young  German   poet   Kbrner  were 
remarkably   in  contrast.     Unlike  the    gallant  hero  of  the 
sword  and  lyre,  his  spirit  shrunk  from  war  and  tumult,  and 
he  enjoyed  pleasure  as  exquisite  on  his  still  and  lonely  bed 
of  lingering  death,  as  thrilled  the  soul  of  Kbrner,  when  it 
parted  from  the  battlefield  to  seek  its   everlasting  abode. 
In  the  one,  all  was  mildness   and   simplicity,  in  the  other, 
patriotism  and  sublimity.     Each  was  fitted  for  his  station : 
Bruce  to  console  and   comfort   his  weeping  mother,  from 
whom  he  was  soon  to  part ;    Kb'rner  to  claim  admiration, 
and  to  perpetuate  an  exalted  fame.     With  calm  philosophy, 
or  rather  Christian  resignation,  Bruce  wanders  and  moral 
izes  among  the  woods  and  waters  of  "  Lochleven,"  with 
martial  gallantry,  Kbrner  wakes  his  countrymen  to  avenge 
their  rights  by  the  trumpet  notes  of  his  "  Wjld  hunting  of 
Lutzow."      In   his   parting   elegy,    Bruce  bids  a  tender,, 
pathetic,  and  holy  farewell  to  all  he  loves  on  earth,  and  sinks 
to  his  final  rest,  mourned,  but  not  lamented ;  Korner  lies 
wounded  on  the  cold  ground  at  Asperne,  and  pours  forth 
his  last  hymn  to  the  God  of  battles,  with  the  same  sublimity 
of  genius  which  had  marked  his  brief  but  bright  career. 


144  SKETCHES  i-\ 


They  both  fell  in  their  youth,  they  both  were  devout  Chris 
tians.  The  path  of  the  German  hero  blazed  with  a  grander 
light,  but  the  mild  radiance  of  the  Scottish  poet  comes  over 
the  heart  like  a  dream  of  beauty. 

Charles  Wolfe,  the  author  of  "  The  Burial  of  Sir  John 
Moore,"  was  not  less  remarkable  for  his  modesty,  than  his 
genius  and  erudition.  His  few  poems  were  produced  at 
long  intervals,  and  suggested  more  by  opportune  occasion, 
or  irresistible  inspiration  than  any  desire  of  fame.  Devo 
ting  himself  equally  to  his  duties  in  the  college  and  the 
church,  he  was  not  less  coy  with  the  muses  than  they  are 
reputed  to  be  with  their  votaries.  He  felt  that  higher 
offices  than  any  appertaining  to  the  minstrel  or  poet,  had 
been  assumed  and  must  be  maintained  by  him.  He  was  not 
hurried  away  by  that  desire  of  distinction,  which  has  too 
often  rendered  the  poet  unhappy  but  accomplished  the  tasks 
which  he  assumed,  with  the  same  patience  that  marked  the 
labours  of  Gray.  During  the  angry  contention  among 
impudent  competitors  for  the  honour  of  having  produced 
"  The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,"  Mr.  Wolfe  entertained 
an  opinion  so  modest  of  his  inimitable  poem,  that  he  did 
not  deem  it  worth  notoriety  to  claim  the  authorship  ;  but  his 
friends,  when  he  was  no  more,  rescued  this  imperishable 
monument  to  his  genius,  from  the  hasty  clutch  of  imposters, 
and  exposed  them  to  the  shame  they  so  deeply  merited. 
Such  an  instance  of  unconscious  power  and  disregard  of 
distinction  is  seldom  met  with. 

The  poems  of  Wolfe  are  characterised  by  simplicity  of 
expression,  strong  sentiment,  purity  and  pathos.  His  ima 
ges  are  not  huddled  one  upon  another  in  undistinguishable 
redundancy,  but  shadowed  among  his  thoughts,  like  moon- 


SKETCHES  IN  PROSE.  145 

light  among  the  woods.  He  discourses  on  human  mutabil 
ity  with  the  jealous  beauty,  not  with  the  stern  austerity  of  a 
precisian,  but  the  gentle  persuasion  of  a  philosopher  and  a 
Christian  divine.  Unlike  the  polemic,  who  loses  all  discre 
tion  in  his  zeal,  he  does  not  hurry  into  the  noisy  din  of  strife , 
resolved  to  be  victor  or  vanquished  ;  but  meets  his  opponent 
on  neutral  ground,  and  sends  him  back  to  his  entrenchments 
ashamed  to  protract  the  warfare.  He  advances  no  opinion, 
however  indisputable,  in  direct  defiance  of  prejudice,  but, 
lamenting  his  dissent  from  the  fond  belief  of  others,  gradu 
ally  counteracts  their  errors,  and  wins  them  to  the  cause  of 
truth.  His  writings  prove  him  to  have  been  a  meek  and 
untiring  apostle  of  his  faith  :  and  his  premature  death  is  to 
be  lamented  both  by  the  lover  of  genuine  poetry,  and  by 
those  who  wish  well  to  the  interest  of  piety  and  virtue. 

Of  all  the  productions  of  Wolfe,  "  The  Burial  of  Sir 
John  Moore,"  has  acquired  and  deserved  the  highest  repu 
tation.  It  is  brief,  but  admirable ;  not  an  image  is  misap 
plied  ;  not  a  word  expletive.  It  moves  with  a  solemn  pomp 
like  the  burial  it  describes ;  and  touches,  by  its  pathos,  the 
finest  sympathies  of  the  heart.  All  the  customary  obsequies 
are  dispensed  with,  and  the  noble  chief  is  buried  as  he  fell. 

By  this  sublime  hymn  of  death,  Wolfe  has  immortalized 
both  his  own  and  the  name  of  his  hero.  No  British  soldier 
can  hear  the  name  of  Corunna,  without  rendering  a  tribute 
to  the  memory  of  Sir  John  Moore,  the  heroic  captain  and 
accomplished  scholar,  and  the  Rev.  Charles  Wolfe,  the  un 
pretending  poet  of  his  renown. 

The  beautiful  skies  of  literature  are  often  darkened  by 
storms  of  passion,  interest  and  revenge,  but  the  annals  of 
letters  cannot  record  a  more  fearful  sacrifice  to  the  unprinci- 

19 


I  H5  -KETCHES  L\   PU< 

pled  vengeance  of  party,  than  the  fine-minded  and  unfortu 
nate  Keats.  His  pure  spirit  allied  itself  to  the  kindred  mind 
of  Shelley,  without  imbibing  contamination  from  his  princi 
ples.  His  heart  was  ever  reaching  after  a  purer  state  ot' 
morals  and  society,  but  he  did  not  scorn  or  offend  the  insti 
tutions  of  existing  polity.  The  dim  genius  of  antiquity 
hovered  over  his  thoughts,  and  he  basked  in  the  imagina 
tive  glories  of  forgotten  days.  He  shrunk  from  the  follies 
and  crimes  around  him,  and  sought  refuge  from  their  influ 
ence  in  the  dreams  and  oracles  of  other  years,  yet,  while  he 
revived  the  beautiful  and  majestic  imaginings  of  the  olden 
time,  and  laboured  to  inculcate  their  high  doctrines  upon 
modern  degeneracy,  he  was  bitterly  persecuted  by  the  criti 
cal  satrap  of  a  mercenary  government,  who  added  to  the 
hireling  vindictiveness  of  office,  the  envy  of  a  low-minded 
literary  rival ;  and  the  fine  sensibilities  of  Keats  were  wan 
tonly  sacrificed  at  the  shrine  of  policy,  while  Croker  ex- 
ultingly  performed  the  executioner's  office. 

A  proud  and  dignified  independence  breathes  through  ;tii 
the  productions  of  Keats  ;  but  there  is  nothing  in  his  "  En- 
dymion,  or  "The  Eve  of  St.  John,"  or  the  unfinished  "Hy 
perion,"  which  could,  in  any  possible  degree,  justify  the 
privileged  virulence  of  the  Quarterly.  We  can  readily  be 
lieve  that  high  church  tories,  whose  faith  reposes  on  the 
formula?  of  obsolete  usages,  may  have  found  but  little  enter 
tainment  in  the  writings  of  this  gifted  youth  ;  but  the  bit 
terness  of  that  undistinguished  invective,  which  thej  lavish 
ed  upon  him,  has,  long  ago,  recoiled  upon  themselves  with 
tenfold  energy.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  deep 
distress  and  despondency  which  terminated  the  life  of  Keats, 
were  primarily  occasioned  by  the  relentless  persecutions  thnt 


SKETCHES  IN  PROSE.  147 

ibllowed  his  writings ;  and  this  is  not  the  only  instance  of 
premature  death,  caused  by  the  perfidy  and  vindictiveness 
of  partisan  malevolence,  secretly  operating  through  the 
spirit  of  literature.  4 

The  clear  genius  of  the  poet  was  clouded,  and  his  spirit 
broken  down  by  the  infinite  contumelies  of  his  enemies. 
The  demon  of  party  snatched  him  from  his  studies,  arrested 
his  composition  of  "  Hyperion,"  and  banished  him  to  the 
continent;  there  he  lingered  awhile,  and  then  departed  to  a 
happier  world,  in  the  flower  of  his  youth,  and  vigour  of  his 
hopes.  The  savage  decree  of  his  foes  was  fulfilled — the 
sacrifice  was  performed,  but  woe  be  to  those  who  personated 
the  high  priests  of  the  fiendish  rites  !  Let  the  poet  be 
judged  by  himself.  What  can  be  more  distinct,  beautiful, 
and  true,  than  this  address  to  the  nightingale : — 

"  Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird  ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 

The  voice  I  heard  this  passing  night,  was  heard 

In  ancient  days,  by  emperor  and  clown  ; 

Perhaps  the  self  same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 

She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  con?." 

Farther  on  we  find  a  most  original  and  beautiful  metaphor, 
a  rare  thing  ;  beauty  sleeping  is 

"  As  though  a  rose  would  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again."  • 

The  dethronement  of  Saturn  uy  Jupiter,  forms  the  subject 
of  Hyperion.  How  awfully  distinct  are  the  images  of  the 
poet,  as  he  guides  the  imagination  to  the  refuge  of  thr 
fallen  god  :— 


148  I'CUES  IN  PROSE. 

"  Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  the  vale, 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn. 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon  and  eve's  lone  star, 

Sat  grey  haired  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 

Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair ; 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head, 

lake  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there. 

Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass, 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest."  *  *  * 

*****  Upon  the  sodden  ground 

His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 

Unsceptered,  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed  ; 

While  his  bowed  head  seemed  listening  to  the  earth, 

His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet." 

He  describes  Saturn's  empress,  and  then  proceeds  : — 

"  How  beautiful  if  sorrow  had  hot  made 

Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  beauty's  self ! 

There  was  a  listening  fear  in  his  regard, 

As  if  calamity  had  but  begun ; 

As  if  the  ban  ward  clouds  of  evil  days 

Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  roar 

Was  with  its  stored  thunder  labouring  up." 

Yet  the  poet  who  was  equal  to  continued  and  sustained 
passages  like  these,  fell  a  victim  to  the  cold-blooded  atrocity 
of  a  cringing  office-holder,  to  the  malignity  and  envy  of 
Croker,  Secretary  of  the  Admiralty.  So  long  as  literature 
and  the  fine  arts  are  made  the  vehicles  of  political  and 
religious  intolerance  and  calumny — so  long  as  genius  is 
sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  Belial  and  Mammon — so  long  a- 
personal  animosity  guides  the  pen  of  the  public  reviewer, 
the  difficulties  to  be  surmounted,  the  trials  to  be  borne,  and 
the  dangers  to  be  resisted  in  the  pathway  of  poetry,  will 


SUETCHES  IN  PROSE.  149 

deter  most  men  of  genius  and  sensibility  from  the  conflict. 
They  will  be  more  disposed  to  leave  the  gory  arena  to  the 
Quarterly  gladiators  alone,  and  seek,  in  the  bosom  of  retire 
ment,  that  quiet  happiness  which  seldom  visited  the  heart  of 
the  unhappy  Keats. 

Literary  biography  furnishes  no  particular  account  of 
Herbert  Knowles ;  all  we  know  of  him  is,  that  he  was  a 
contemplative  young  man,  who  resided  in  the  vicinity,  and 
was  accustomed  to  frequent  the  churchyard  of  Richmond. 
At  what  period  he  was  born,  how  he  lived,  or  when  he  died 
we  know  not.  Like  Grant,  the  author  of  the  most  celebrated 
Oxford  prize  poem  ever  produced,  he  seems  to  have  thrown 
all  his  energies  into  one  masterly  effort,  achieved  the  victory, 
and  disappeared  forever.  His  genius  does  not  indeed  glow 
with  the  fervour  of  a  Milton,  but  the  pathos  and  power  of 
his  thoughts  and  imagery  are  touching,  because  they  are 
true.  The  "  Churchyard"  is  an  energetic  epitome  of  the 
vanity  of  human  hopes  and  wishes.  To  what  should  a 
tabernacle  be  built  in  that  solemn  realm  of  death  f  To 
ambition  ?  oh,  no  !  he  is 

"  To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  peer  and  a  prey." 

To  beauty  ?  no  !  To  pride  ?  wherefore  ?  To  him  nothing  is 
or  can  be  allowed,  but 

"  The  long  windingsheet  and  the  fringe  of  the  shroud." 
To  riches  ?  alas,  nothing  remains  to  them  but 

"  The  tinsel  that  shone  on  the  dark  coffin-lid." 
To  love  ?  in  that  awful  hour  of  silence, 

"  Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters,  are  laid  side  by  side.. 
Yet  none  have  saluted  and  none  have  replied." 


150  SKETCHES  IN  PROSE. 

Thus  proving  everything  vain  and  unsatisfactory,  he 
resolves  to  build  the  three  tabernacles  to  Hope,  Faith,  and 
the  Lamb  of  the  Sacrifice. 

The  conception  of  this  poem  is  admirable,  and  its  execu 
tion  is  remarkable  for  simplicity  of  style,  and  for  strength 
and  beauty  of  expression.  It  remains  a  durable  monument 
to  the  memory  of  a  name  which,  after  all,  is  the  glorious 
ultimatum  of  incessant  aspirations,  struggles,  and  trials. 
On  a  rational  review  of  the  history  of  literature,  we  become 
more  and  more  persuaded  that  he  who  devotes  the  energies 
of  his  mind,  and  the  treasures  of  his  knowledge,  to  the 
acquirement  merely  of  fame,  is  misguided  and  unwise. 
While  a  satisfactory  proportion  of  just  applause  follows  the 
steady  and  pleasurable  exercise  of  the  cultivated  intellect, 
life  glides  on  peacefully,  and  literature  largely  contributes 
to  its  enjoyment;  but  the  restlessness  of  ambition,  the  quench 
less  thirst  of  vanity,  the  one  unvarying  desire  to  acquire 
notoriety  at  any  expense,  inevitably  subject  the  wretched 
devotee  to  innumerable  disappointments  and  vexations! 
Amid  the  comforts  of  a  well  spent  life,  it  is  pleasant  to 
anticipate  the  applause  of  posterity;  but  during  the  tumult 
of  persecution,  and  in  the  dust  of  the  garret,  the  honours 
that  may  be  awarded  to  our  ashes,  are  empty  as  "  air, 
thin  air." 


JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE, 


UNDER  auspicious  circumstances,  it  is  a  pleasant  thing 

To  make  a  tour  and  take  a  whirl, 
To  learn  bon  ton  and  see  the  worl5 — 

for  our  admiration  of  novel  beauties  counteracts  the  num 
berless  vexations  to  which  we  are  exposed,  and,  while  con 
templating  the  glories  of  the  past,  we  almost  forget  the  suf 
ferings  of  the  present.  The  petty,  though  provoking 
annoyances  of  gendarmie  and  sub-perfectures  too  often 
awaken  us  from  our  dreams  of  other  times,  but  the  intensity 
of  delight  soon  effaces  these  evils  from  the  mind.  It  is 
exhilarating  to  visit  strange  places ;  imaginary  pictures  are 
displayed  before  living  realities,  and  we  turn  and  turn  from 
the  one  to  the  other,  pleased  alike  with  the  vraisemblance 
and  the  contrast.  The  longing  curiosity,  which  has  haunted 
our  dreams  for  years,  is  gratified  in  its  full  extent ;  and, 
though  this  gratification  is  often  associated  with  melancholy 
feelings,  yet  the  enthusiastic  consciousness  that  we  tread 
upon  holy  ground — ground  sanctified  by  the  blood  of  pa 
triots  and  martyrs — fills  the  heart  with  the  glory  of  departed 
ages,  and  guides  us  to  a  proud  participation  in  the  honours 
of  the  dead.  The  venerable  abodes  of  those  who  have 
passed  away  to  the  land  of  dreams,  vividly  suggest  remem- 


J52  .IOH.N  liowAKD 


brances  of  their  lives  and  deeds  ;  and  every  ruin  ii 
our  hearts  with  high  resolves  to  follow  the  pathway  of  the 
wise  and  good.  There  is  a  mentor  in  every  trace  of  a  good 
man's  footsteps;  there  is  a  high  reward  for  all  who  re 
verence  the  memory  and  imitate  the  example  which  lie 
leaves  behind.  The  ancient  chamber,  where  the  just  man 
dwelt,  is  more  eloquent  in  its  ruin  than  the  most  seraphic 
sublimity  that  ever  fell  from  the  lips  of  Bordaloue.  The 
thoughts  of  our  minds  insensibly  blend  with  the  hopes  and 
fears,  the  troubles  and  the  trials  of  other  beings  in  other 
times  ;  and,  as  we  tread  the  same  ground  which  once  they 
trod,  it  behoves  us  to  feel  the  influence  of  their  example, 
and  direct  our  course  toward  the  same  mansion  of  rest 
which  has  been  allotted  to  them.  Not  less  should  we  be 
deterred  from  evil  deeds,  and  the  indulgence  of  evil  pas 
sions,  by  beholding  the  dilapidated  abodes  of  those  who 
were  a  curse  to  their  species,  and  a  dishonour  to  the  name 
of  man.  The  sensitive  heart  will  feel  alike  the  influence  of 
the  penates  and  the  demons.  Though  the  persons  have 
disappeared,  yet  their  spectres  are  present  still  ;  and  we  can 
almost  hear  the  prayer  of  the  holy  and  the  anathema  of 
the  unjust  man  ring  through  the  antique  dwellings  where 
we  tread  with  reverential  awe  or  thrilling  abhorrence. 

The  first  peculiar  object  which  attracts  the  stranger's  at 
tention  in  Paris  is  the  immense  height  of  the  houses  ;  the 
next  is  the  suspension  of  the  lamps,  at  the  altitude  of  nearly 
forty  feet,  across  the  streets  ;  and  the  third  is  the  disgusting 
filth  that  everywhere  prevails.  The  shadows  of  the  night 
fell  darkly  around  us  ere  we  reached  the  London  Hotel  ; 
but  the  streaming  lights  of  the  lamps  displayed  the  perils  of 
our  path,  and  our  olfactory  nerves  suffered  a  thousand  mar- 


JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE.  153 

tyrdoms  ere  we  crossed  the  boulevard  des  Italiens,  and  en 
tered  the  echoing  court  of  our  sojourning  place.  Hence 
we  were  ushered  up  a  long  flight  of  stairs,  and  through 
countless  corridors,  which  guided  us  at  last,  to  the  exalted 
apartments  apportioned  to  our  occupancy.  Perceiving,  on 
our  entrance,  that  the  floors  were  tiled,  without  even  an 
apology  for  a  carpet,  we  felt  the  April  weather  too  sensi 
tively  without  fire ;  but,  when  this  was  called  for,  the 
French  chambermaid  stared  as  if  we  had  asked  a  miracle, 
until  the  request  was  repeated,  when  she  left  the  room  mut 
tering  something  about  fogs,  rosbif,  and  Monsieur  Anglais. 
The  word  comfort  is  outlawed  among  the  French ;  it  be 
longs  not  to  their  vocabulary;  it  appertains  not  to  their 
speech  ;  it  is  an  alien  to  their  hearts  ! — So  that  their  tiles 
are  finely  polished,  and  their  beds  well  adorned,  and  their 
rooms  hung  round  with  mirrors,  it  matters  hot  if  the  lattices 
are  half  closed  in  a  chilly  day,  or  if  an  ague  should  follow 
the  discomfort  of  a  night's  unrest.  We  were  sufficiently 
acquainted  with  the  vexations  of  travelling,  however,  to 
avoid  the  latter  evil ;  and  we  awoke,  in  the  morning,  re 
lieved  from  the  fatigues  of  our  journey,  and  prepared  to 
enjoy  the  novelty  of  our  new  situation. 

Coffee  is  a  sine  qua  non  among  the  French ;  and  they 
may  well  boast  of  its  excellence,  for  he  who  has  partaken 
this  delicious  beverage  in  Paris,  would  scarcely  endure  the 
mockery  among  any  other  people.  To  drink  French  coffee 
from  Severes  porcelain  is  indeed  a  luxury. 

Our  breakfast  had  just  concluded,  when  John  Howard 
Payne,  our  distinguished  countryman  called  upon  me.  He 
had  received  my  introductory  letters  on  the  preceding 

20 


154  JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE. 

evening  ;  and  the  readiness  with  which  he  fulfilled  his  du 
ties  as  a  gentleman,  dissipated,  at  once,  all  the  idle  false 
hoods  by  which  his  enemies  in  London  had  laboured  to 
blast  his  character.  Modest,  yet  self-possessed  ;  instructive 
in  conversation,  yet  scorning  all  display;  Mr.  Payne 
delights  the  stranger  as  much  by  the  qualities  of  his  heart 
as  the  vigour  of  his  mind.  We  recognise  the  writer,  and 
admire  his  powers,  but  it  is  reserved  for  the  man  to  complete 
the  satisfaction  we  enjoy. 

Yet  no  one  has  been  more  frequently  and  bitterly  assailed 
by  Grub-street  lampooners  and  merciless  creditors.  His 
name  has  been  uttered  as  a  word  of  scorn  by  the  lowest 
and  the  vilest  of  our  species.  His  moral  and  literary  cha 
racter  has  suffered  alike  from  the  shafts  of  ridicule,  the  un 
feeling  attacks  of  the  envious,  and  the  cold  treachery  of 
pretended  friends.  There  are  always  certain  low-born 
drivellers  in  every  community,  who  burrow  for  falsehoods — 
who  banquet  on  lies — to  whom  the  bread  of  life'  is  the  de 
struction  of  genius.  These  insolent  pests  always  scatter 
abuse  on  the  fairest  characters,  and  make  up  in  vituperation 
what  they  lack  in  truth.  But  Mr.  Payne  is  above  the  in 
fluence  of  their  malevolent  injustice;  they  can  inflict  no 
injury  on  a  man  who  could  be  amenable  to  their  attacks  only 
by  adopting  their  society. 

During  my  residence  in  the  French  capital,  and  in  Ver 
sailles,  I  had  very  frequent  occasions  to  observe  the  per 
sonal  and  literary  character  of  Mr.  Payne,  and  I  cannot  do 
him  the  injustice  to  withhold  my  testimony  to  his  generous 
traits  of  character,  and  his  intellectual  ability.  It  is  his 
misfortune  that  the  former  sometimes  degenerate  into  in- 


JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNK.  155 

considerate  profusion,  and  that  the  latter  is  often  misapplied 
to  purposes  unprofitable  and  unbefitting  his  genius.  There 
are  hearts,  in  this  cold  world  of  ours,  so  callous  and  obdu 
rate — so  utterly  insensible  to  the  outbreathings  of  an  in 
spired  nature — as  to  confound  the  impulsive  errors  of  a 
noble  mind  with  the  deliberate  crimes  of  an  unprincipled 
character.  It  has  been  the  destiny  of  Mr.  Payne  to  en 
counter  such  hypocritical  pretenders  to  martyr-like  sanctity ; 
and,  from  the  fury  of  their  holy  zeal,  he  has  suffered  in  the 
same  degree  as  all  must  do  who  madly  confide  in  the  pro 
fessions  of  fanatics,  with  whom  there  is  nothing  good  be 
neath  the  light  of  that  heaven  to  which  they  expect  to 
attain.  Things  are  very  unequally  and  strangely  bestowed 
in  this  world.  It  is  almost  unaccountable  why  generosity 
should  be  paralyzed  through  want  of  means ;  or  why  the 
possession  of  the  power  of  benificence  should  exclude  the 
inclination.  The  income  of  Mr.  Payne  (which  a  little 
more  worldly  wisdom  might  greatly  augment)  is  utterly 
insufficient  to  fulfil  his  benevolent  purposes ;  and,  therefore, 
he  is  not  unfrequently  subjected  to  that  species  of  trouble 
which  compelled  Sir  Richard  Steele  to  write  a  pamphlet  at 
a  single  sitting,  and  which  domesticated  Dr.  Johnson  in 
uninterrupted  privacy,  for  no  short  time,  in  the  dreary  alley 
of  St.  Lambert. 

For  an  impartial  observer  it  is  not  difficult  to  trace  those 
abberations  which  terminate  in  disappointment ;  though  the 
windings  of  the  path  are  often  imperceptible  to  the  traveller, 
yet  they  are  distinctly  visible  to  all  who  are  free  to  mark 
the  objects  in  his  way.  Although  Mr.  Payne  may  be  un 
willing  to  believe  that  his  departure  from  the  Ha}rmarket 


156  JOHN  HOWARD  PAYM'. 

Theatre  was  the  proximate  cause  of  much  distress,  yet  all 
who  feel  an  interest  in  his  welfare  are  ready  to  aver  it  with 
deep  regret.  As  an  actor  and  manager,  he  attained  a  dis 
tinction,  an  influence,  and  an  income,  which  he  never  can 
enjoy,  as  a  dramatist.  Formed  for  activity,  and  only  happy 
when  full  of  employment,  Mr.  Payne  soon  grew  fat  and  in 
dolent  amid  his  sedentery  advocations,  and  deferred  oppor 
tunities  of  splendid  success  till  the  period  had  gone  by.  Let 
not  this  be  understood  as  derogating  from  his  merit  as  an 
author ;  his  powers  are  not  limited  to  his  ordinary  pursuits, 
but  they  are  restricted  by  those  pursuits  to  a  narrow  compass, 
and  lowered  to  the  petty  standard  of  interested  opinions. 
As  a  mere  translator  and  copyist,  he  never  can  acquire  re 
nown  ;  the  faults,  moral  and  literary,  of  the  authors  whom  ho 
translates,  are  always  imputed  to  him,  while  the  beauties  are 
invariably  assigned  to  the  original  writer.  His  profits  as  a 
dramatist  must  always  be  insignificant,  for  he  exercises  but 
little  vigilance  over  his  productions,  and  his  labours  have 
more  frequently  conduced  to  the  independent  livelihood  of 
others  than  his  own.  He  is  therefore  abused  for  opinions 
which  he  did  not  utter,  and  persecuted  for  errors  which  ho 
did  not  commit.  He  will  not  return  to  his  own  country,  for 
he  fears  that  every  body  has  forgotten  him ;  he  will  not  re 
sume  his  station  on  the  boards,  for  he  is  too  corpulent  for 
Hamlet ;  and  he  will  not  adopt  original  dramatic  composi 
tion,  for  it  is  too  laborious.  Thus  he  shuts  himself  out 
from  the  favours  of  his  countrymen  and  the  applause  of  the 
public  ;  thus  he  fritters  away  his  gifts  in  an  unprofitable 
cause,  and  despises  that  worldly  wisdom  which  might  have 
conducted  him  to  opulence. 


JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE.  157 

But  he  errs  more  in  respect  to  his  own  welfare  than  to 
wards  his  friends  or  the  world ;  and  therefore,  while  all  who 
regard  him  cannot  but  blame  his  improvidence,  and  lament 
his  indolent  misapplication  of  no  ordinary  powers,  they  are 
compelled  to  admire  his  generosity,  his  magnanimity,  his 
truth  and  honour — and  to  reverence  the  man,  whose  suf 
ferings,  however  produced,  are  restricted  to  himself — but 
whose  honours,  worthily  acquired,  are  reflected  on  the 
countries  of  his  birth  and  adoption. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Dedication  -.__._..        .3 

The  Argument 5 

Abaddon,  the  Spirit  of  Destruction                 ....  7" 

The  Heart's  Apocalypse  51 

Despondency -        ...  55 

Grave  Watching 59 

Pere  La  Chaise             £-        -        .  62 

An  Evening  Song  of  Peidmont  66 

The  Imperial  Sacrifice 68 

The  Last  Hour  of  the  Polonese         -        ....  71 

The  Capture  of  Andre           -        -        -        -  ,     -        -        -  76 

Memory's  Revealings -  79 

The  Eudsemonist 82 

Sunset  at  Sea 86 

Hope                             - -  91 

Stanzas,  written  in  the  Park  of  Versailles         •'-        -  93 

The  Disinterred  Mastadon             97 

Sonnet              - -        .  101 

The  Star  of  Memory             102 

Sonnet              105 

The  Dawn  of  the  Decade             -        -        .        *        .        .  106 

Religion  Unrevealed         .-_..,.  HI 

The  Father's  Legacy                      116 

The  Last  Song  to  Clara            - 120 

To  My  Husband 126 

Birthday  Meditations        - 130 

Sketches  in  Prose — Young  Poets  of  Britain            ...  135 

John  Howard  Payne          -  •       -' 151 


- 


s 


